


This is Me Trying

by Rubick



Series: The Song Series [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Based on a Taylor Swift Song, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Emotional Risks, Folklore, Inspired by Taylor Swift, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Minor Quentin Coldwater/Alice Quinn, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Post-Mosaic Timeline (The Magicians: A Life in the Day), Q Tops, Quentin Coldwater Lives, Quentin Coldwater's Canonical Oral Fixation, Quentin and Eliot's Canonically Poor Communication Skills, Song: the lakes, Song: this is me trying (Taylor Swift), Taylor Swift Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:13:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 39,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26374762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubick/pseuds/Rubick
Summary: Eliot is staring at Quentin’s feet, the shadows of the hallway making it look like he’s at the end of a long, dark tunnel that he’d clawed his way up to get to this bedroom. “Yes, I did. After I was able to get out of bed and... walk and you were finally awake for longer than an hour, I went to see you.” He leans against the doorway again, his hands in his pockets, eyes moving from Quentin, to the window, and then back. He clears his throat - “You didn’t see me. And I- what I wanted to say- I couldn’t… and it was cowardly. I should have just talked to you, but I ran instead.”What I wanted to say…“What did you want to say?” Quentin asks softly.“Why didn’t you say it?” he almost whispers, his eyes gazing up at Eliot.Eliot looks at him and whatever he sees in Quentin’s eyes seems to break him even further, and a choked sob escapes. He runs a hand over his face and says, “You had Alice.”Quentin swallows.“I wantedyou.”
Relationships: Eliot Waugh & Julia Wicker, Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater & Julia Wicker, Quentin Coldwater/Alice Quinn, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: The Song Series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1916731
Comments: 65
Kudos: 142
Collections: A Million Little Times





	1. could've followed my fears all the way down

**Author's Note:**

> This is a post 4x13 AU where Quentin Coldwater lives, based on the song “This is Me Trying” from the Taylor Swift album “Folklore” written for the Queliot Folklore event. 
> 
> Many thanks to [The Auditty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAuditty/pseuds/TheAuditty) and [hoko_onchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoko_onchi/pseuds/hoko_onchi) for your rentleness cheerleading and help at pushing me to “make it hurt more.” Aud also made the incredible mood board, /kiss!

  


Eliot

Now

He’d never actually been in the building where faculty lived, the ‘teacher dorms’ (although he’d come close once with that Practical Applications professor his first year, who’d disappeared not too long after). As he climbs the stairs that lead to the individual bedrooms on the second floor, he understands why most teachers elect to not live here. He’s pretty sure he and the person he’s walking towards are the only ones in the entire building, and the blank walls and silence in the common areas don’t reflect much personality.

He swallows as he approaches the door all the way at the end of the hall, where she had said he would be—it’s ajar, letting him see inside, an open window with blue and white plaid curtains moving in the gentle breeze. The corner of a wooden bedpost, shoved against two walls. His steps falter as he hears a cough. His heart rate picks up, stomach dropping slightly—he wasn’t entirely sure if he would be here or not, but even his cough he recognizes. He’s here, he’s come a long way, and _fuck, what if it all goes to shit?_

 _No. Don’t cock out, you came here for a reason. You have to try._ So he takes another step, the old wooden floorboards creaking under his feet, and he knows he hears—and sure enough, the sound of wheels squeaking under an office chair, and suddenly there he is in a black rolling office chair that looks out of place and _jesus he looks so much older_ but somehow he hasn’t aged a day.

He has a pen clutched between his teeth, a white piece of paper between two fingers, eyebrows raised in surprise as his mouth falls open and the pen clinks to the floor. He let his hair grow out, right now it’s pulled back in a tight little bun, and his breath catches as those brown eyes widen, surprise and confusion ( _joy?_ ), the corner of his lips seemingly automatically perking up and then suddenly his brow furrows and his mouth tugs down. “Eliot,” Quentin says, and it’s like an anvil to his chest.

Eliot walks the few more steps to the doorway, peering inside—it’s very...spartan, just like the rest of the building. Nothing on the walls save the dark blue paint, a double bed, unmade, a nightstand—and there is something familiar, three novels that Eliot is suddenly very sure are fantasy, a slim leather bound book that looks like a journal, an alarm clock, and shit… a picture. Framed. It’s too far away, but it’s familiar… _Focus. He’s right in front of you._

In all, the room is very Not-Quentin. But again, it’s been a year, so who is he to know who Quentin is now? That last letter was… six months ago. Simple. Perfunctory. Much more than just the words pressed into the page. _I’m great, hope you're great. I'll see you when I see you._ A stark difference from the prior two. The ones that had been unfolded and refolded so many times the paper felt almost like leather against his fingertips.

Then six months of silence. On both ends.

“Hi, Quentin,” Eliot said, leaning against the doorframe. A moment of silence—they stare, drinking, absorbing each other, and suddenly he’s clearing his throat, which is stinging, _shit fuck I haven’t even said anything yet_. “How are you?” he asks, eyes darting to Quentin and back and Quentin is—was—smiling but neither one has moved to shake hands, hug? 

“How are?—” An incredulous smile forms on his face, and he looks away, then back to Eliot. “I’m—I’m ok. How are you?” He’s shaking his head, still smiling in that way that doesn't reach his eyes. Eliot smiles back not even knowing he’s doing it, but Quentin is still sitting in his chair and Eliot is still in the doorway.

“I’m—um, I’m ok,” he says. “I know it’s been a while…” That seems woefully inadequate, but words are leaving him.

“Y-yeah,” Quentin says, placing his paper back on his desk, still sitting, looking at Eliot. “It- it’s good to see you.” His eyes suddenly widen, his knees bend as he starts to rise from his chair. “Is- is everything ok? In Fillory? Is something going on?”

Of course his first thought would be catastrophe—he hasn’t seen him for a year, and suddenly he appears out of the blue, why else would he be here if not for the world collapsing again? “No- no,” he straightens, still in the doorway, he hasn’t been invited in, hands waving away any concern. “No, everything is fine in Fillory, Margo, Fen, Josh - everyone is good. Great. No emergencies.” Quentin nods, settling back in his little black office rolly chair, the little wrinkle coming back between his eyebrows. The question hangs in the air, ‘ _Then why are you here?_ ’

Eliot swallows again. _Why is he here?_ “Yeah, it’s… you look good.” He does. His face is pale, not as pale as it had been the last time Eliot had seen him, laying in a hospital bed, his girlfriend tracing her hand down his face, which was now full of stubble, eyes clear and studying. _God_ , he looks good.

Quentin smiles without teeth, a closed smile but it really feels like a grimace, and his eyes sweep Eliot from head to toe. “You look like shit,” he says, bluntly, factually. Because it is a fact, Eliot knows. 

Eliot chuckles, clears his throat, glances to his feet. “Yeah, it’s been a… year. A rough year. I’ve been having a hard time adjusting.”

“Really?” Quentin’s voice has an edge, and Eliot looks up to see brown eyes full of steel and spikes, something suddenly simmering. “Was it rough? I wouldn’t know; since you didn’t respond to my last three letters. That I sent over six months ago.”

 _Ok, so it’s happening._ Eliot knew there would be anger but he wasn’t prepared for this hardness, confronted with it not even five minutes after laying eyes on him. He figured there would be conversation, time to build tension, beat around the bush… He almost thought that maybe, now that he was here, maybe… Quentin would let him off the hook.

_Not fucking likely, you idiot._

“I know I haven’t… communicated much,” he starts, almost wincing at the words coming out.

“Much?” Quentin says, his eyebrows in his hair. His mouth is a thin line, he suddenly stands, the chair rolling behind him from the force. Eliot startles, his mouth opening, arms crossing in front of his chest, standing up straight from where he had started to lean against the door frame. “I haven’t heard jack shit from you in almost a year. I haven’t _seen_ you since you fucked off to Fillory without even saying goodbye. After I spent months fighting everyone to pull a monster out of you.”

Shame broils in his stomach, crawls up his chest and stalls out there. His mouth opens, “Quentin—”

“I hadn’t even gotten out of the hospital and you were gone.” His voice is stark, accusing, his eyes are angry, but even worse, they’re sad. And Eliot can see the question behind them. _Why would you do that?_

Eliot’s eyes close and his fingers touch his forehead. “I know. I’m sorry, Quentin. I just, I- I didn’t…” his voice falters, he licks his dry lips as he searches. He doesn’t quite know what to say.

\---

_Eliot_

_Then_

_The cane they brought him was brown, shiny with an ivory handle. He didn’t like it. At his first opportunity, he’d transfigured it—to match the one he had towards the end. At the mosaic. Black, with a silver ram’s head. If he had to use a cane, it would be this one._

_Now Margo was there, holding one hand as he tested out his legs, his belly swirling. Not nausea, more like static inside his skin, itching—the magic used to heal him would linger for some time, Lipson had said._

_He stood up on one foot, two; Margo’s eyes were wide as she watched, and then her face split in a smile as he let go of her hand, still leaning heavily on the cane. He took one step, and then another. He felt… not good, not strong, but not horrible, not weak. He looked up, and Professor Lipson was smiling as well._

_“I can release you,” she said. “I’ll send you with a few muscle relaxers and potions, but as long as you continue with your PT—” she put a very deliberate emphasis on those last few words, eyebrows raised, and Eliot rolled his eyes and smiled—“you’ll probably be able to lose the cane in a few weeks. Just don’t plan on running any marathons for a while, okay?”_

_Eliot nodded, his heart in his throat, and asked, “And what about Quentin?”_

_Professor Lipson nodded, her hands clasped in front of her. “He’ll still be here another week or two. We still have some work to do on the muscular structure in his leg, and more PT sessions for his hand before he can go. But hopefully soon. You can go see him, he’s awake.”_

_Eliot’s eyes drifted, and he nodded. The professor left. Sewing up the huge hole chopped in his stomach and intestines only took a couple of weeks, but a nearly incinerated leg and hand required more finesse…_

_Margo beamed up at him. “An axe to the gut and you’re out of the hospital in a month. Must be the good genes.” He smiled down at her wryly, and she wrapped her arms around him, tucking herself right under his chin. He leaned the cane against the bed, not aiming properly and it toppled to the floor, but he didn’t pay any mind as he wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her forehead. He felt her fingers tremble as they gripped the back of his shirt. He closed his eyes and let the tears escape._

_“I know you have things to take care of here… but there’s a room waiting for you in Fillory.” Her voice was small, almost quivering. His eyes tightened, something surging up his throat, and he swallowed it down._

_“I know,” he said. He thought he had things here. He wasn’t sure. But he needed to try to find out._

_Margo pulled away, quickly wiping at her eyes. “I’m going to go grab a few things from the cottage. We’ll figure out what’s next when I get back, ok?” He nodded, sitting back down on the bed, wiping his own face as she walked away, picking up his cane and setting on the bed next to him before she left. She paused in the doorway —“He’s in 107.” Then she was gone._

_Eliot sighed, looking at the cane. Then he reached over to the little table next to his bed, and pulled out an envelope. It was blank, and he unfolded it and pulled out the papers inside._

_He’d spent weeks in this bed, his guts being rebuilt by magic, reminding his body that he was the one in charge (where he had been, time was a flat circle, but apparently it had been long enough for him to become softer all over, his stomach too used to a diet of sugar and carbs and alcohol, and fuck this craving for a sweet cream vanilla cold brew), but healing his mind was an entirely other matter. But what else was new? He was eternally damaged. What was a few months being holed up in a prison of his own making while his body killed a few dozen people._

_The first weeks after opening his eyes and seeing Bambi gazing back at him, were a haze of blackness, bleach and rust in his nose and palpable on his tongue, needles prickling as magic seeped into his tissue, knitting and fusing. He was thankful—he didn’t need those memories._

_He dreamed, though. In his dreams, sometimes he was back in the cottage, not the ‘happy place,’ but the real cottage, on the couch with Quentin, in the kitchen with Margo, behind the shitty folding table he’d set up as his bar mixing drinks, or listening to Quentin plan to martyr himself. Other times he was in Fillory, hearing petitions while he exchanged a look with Bambi, in a tree staring down at Idri, in the throne room with a door appearing, at the mosaic with dirt under his fingernails, a heavy heart, and an urge to just lay down on the hard tile and sleep._

_The third week he was awake more than asleep, able to sit up. Margo sat next to him, her eyes wet. He’d smiled at her, and asked, “Where’s Q?”_

_Margo had looked at him with sad eyes and his heart had seized, but she rushed to explain that he was ok—or he would be, eventually. Alice was with him, right down the hall, which was good. It was good. Eliot asked if he could visit, but apparently getting out of bed wasn’t a thing he could do right then, and moving him in his bed wasn’t the best idea, so just lay there and wait and heal and god, stop bitching, were you always this whiny? (Good to know Bambi’s bedside manner would never change, no matter how many axes she buried in his body.)_

_Over the next two weeks, Margo would be there, sometimes Julia (“Quentin’s fine, still sleeping a lot, he asked about you, so can we talk about the whole ‘being locked inside your own mind’ thing for a minute?”), once Penny (“You look like shit. But you’re not a homicidal baby god monster hell bent on destroying the world, so that’s an improvement I guess.”) Professor Lipson brought him books to read, but they sat untouched by the bedside. Sometime around day three of just him and his thoughts (as if months alone with them and Charlton weren’t enough), he asked for a pen and paper. He was never one to write letters, but this had to come out, like fucking now or he was going to go back into a coma. The first two pages he tore up, but the third… the third was ok. Well, it was his heart bleeding out on the paper, like some fucking lovelorn middle-schooler, but it served it’s purpose. He’d read it at least once every day since. He didn’t intend to give it to Quentin, but he needed to feel its weight in his hands, evidence that his words to Happy-Place-Quentin weren’t a lie. He was going to be brave._

_He put the envelope in his pocket, the crinkling of it comforting, picked up his cane, and hobbled out into the hallway, grasping onto the doorframe just for a moment before continuing down the hall. 107 was just three rooms down. The door was open a foot, wide enough to see movement inside. He was just outside, hand reaching out to knock when he froze, eyes wide._

_Quentin was sitting up, some kind of shining haze wrapping around his right leg, his right hand encased in the same. Eliot felt a burn through his chest- Quentin’s hand… but Lipson had said he’d be fine._ He’d be fine. _His face was pale, his cheekbones were more drawn, dark circles under his eyes, his hair limp, but he was smiling, his eyes alight in a way Eliot hadn’t seen since… since he’d doused that light in the fucking throne room. He was looking off to the side, and a gentle hand reached in to touch his chin, and then Alice leaned in, a kiss so loving it made Eliot ache. She pulled away, her fingers resting near his pulse. Eliot wanted to feel it, that solid thud thud thud to prove Quentin was there, alive, okay. But his gaze was drawn back to Quentin’s face- so adoring and so fucking happy._

 _What was he doing? He’d not only pushed Quentin away, he’d shoved him out the door and across the world on a boat. Just because he had some epiphany inside of his own fucking consciousness didn’t mean jack shit. Quentin had moved on, and what kind of asshole would he be to come sweeping in, “Oh, hey, yeah, hope your leg and hand aren’t too fucked up, Alice, excuse me, but I need to profess my undying love to your boyfriend, I don’t mean to fuck up your relationship_ again, _thanks for your understanding.”_

_They’d already had their life together, their happy ending—fifty years of it. Who the fuck was he to think, to hope, that he would ever deserve another one? The luckiest people in the world hardly got half of one. How arrogant could he be? This wasn’t the brave thing—this was the selfish thing._

_He swallowed, and after one more long look (_ this is it, this is all you get _), he stepped away and shuffled back to his room. His legs weren’t tired yet—he looked around to pack up his things, and realized he had no things. So he sat and waited, three pieces of paper so heavy in his pocket. He should throw them away—but he didn’t._

_Margo reappeared less than an hour later, showered and changed, ready to conquer Fillory in kitten heels and a tight skirt. She opened her mouth, and Eliot beat her to it—“I want to go back to Fillory.”_

_Her mouth snapped closed, her eyes lighting up. “Okay. Well shit, I thought I’d at least have to take you out to dinner first before you’d go all the way. Are you sure?”_

_Eliot hesitated, looking at the door, his hand in his pocket curled around the envelope there. Then, “Yes. Can we go now?”_

_“Right now? Well, yeah, but I thought you’d want to be here at least a few days? Did you—”_

_“I’m ready to go now,” Eliot said firmly._

_Margo’s nostrils flared slightly as she took him in, evaluating. “Okay, then. Let’s go.”_

_They have to go back to the cottage, where Eliot wants to walk with his cane, but Margo insists on the wheelchair, and fine, whatever it takes to get out and get going; no use in fighting with her anyway. “Anything here you want to bring with?” Margo asked, as she gathered her bags- it looks like she’s bringing her entire wardrobe. Which shouldn't be a surprise, even though she’d had enough clothing made for her in Fillory to last anyone a lifetime. Bambi always did like to have options._

_Eliot is looking only at the clock- not at the kitchen, up the stairs, to the back patio. “No. Nothing.”_

_And then they go. Margo hadn’t lied, she had his room waiting for him, his clothes still in the closet and in his wardrobe. One of his trunks sat at the foot of the bed. She left him there to rest, the (now stolen) wheelchair in the corner._

_He reached in his pocket, pulling out the envelope. He stared at it for a second. Ten, then thirty. Then he opened his trunk, and tossed it inside. It closed with a thud that echoed throughout the room. He took off his shoes and fell onto the bed, asleep in minutes._

_It was not restful._

_\--_

Quentin

Now

Quentin knows that he really should take a second and compose himself, make an excuse, go to the bathroom. Something so he can pause, or at least slow down every single emotion he’s been suppressing for the past year from flying out of his mouth. Adrenaline is flowing from the hair on his head down to his toenails; he’s practically vibrating, how there aren’t sparks flying out of his fingertips from emotional overload, he has no idea. When he’d heard someone coming up the hall (a rarity no matter the day), the absolute last person he expected to see was Eliot. That same face, older and more gaunt than he remembered, but just as fucking beautiful as the one that popped up in his mind every goddamn day, and in his dreams almost as often. 

Once he’d realized who was standing in his doorway, without an emergency in sight, just dropping by to say hey, how are ya, Quentin's mind started moving (exploding, dissolving) very quickly. Eliot’s eyes were dim and hesitant, but Quentin felt like his could have been on fire as his stomach dropped down to the Underworld and he was transported to the first night he’d guzzled an emotion bottle. Anger, frustration, longing, confusion, and most of all, the fucking _joy_ at finally seeing the person that was a flashback in a film reel on the one screen in his mind, the person he told himself _so many times_ he didn’t need or want. That made his blood boil the most- Eliot had cut him off completely, and his first reaction to seeing him was a happiness he hadn’t felt in… a while. He’d shoved it all aside and grabbed hold to the emotion that burned the brightest, a deep red anger that he wrapped around himself like a blanket. 

Now, after Quentin had demonstrated just a small fraction of the rage, the one thing he was clinging to, Eliot’s expression dimmed even further. His face was downcast, eyes closed as his fingers touched his forehead. “I know. I’m sorry, Quentin. I just, I- I didn’t…” Eliot’s voice falters, and Quentin blows out a breath through his nose.

“You didn’t care,” Quentin says, his voice hard, even as cracks already start to form in the paper-thin wall of fury he’s trying to keep up. _Months of silence. Who gives a shit if he looks so sad._

The beat of his heart sang out, _'I do, I do.'_ He smothered it's melody with the blanket.

“No!” Eliot bursts out, his body straightening tall, his eyes opening, locking with Quentin’s. 

“Quentin, I did. I did care. I _do_ care. I just _—_ after everything, I thought it was best if I left.” Eliot was still standing in that goddamn doorway, looking so earnestly at Quentin that he had to turn away. He ran both hands through his hair, breathing out, then dropped his arms at his sides. Shaking his head, he turned back to Eliot.

“How can you know what’s best _for me_ if you don’t even fucking _talk to me_ about it? Do you have any idea what I _—_ what we _—_ went through to pull you out of there? I almost fucking _died_.” Eliot’s eyes squeeze close at this, and he crosses his arms in front of himself, as if they can shield him from the pain of Quentin’s words. 

_Good_ , Quentin thinks. _I hope it fucking aches._ Then, quiet in the back, _He looks so small._

“I know,” Eliot whispered. “That’s why I’m here. I- I owe you a lot. And I fucked up. And I’m trying _—_ ”

“You fucked up.” Quentin shook his head. “Do you know what this past year has been like for me? Alice and I lasted three months. Fogg gave me a job because he fucking felt _sorry_ for me. I spend every day teaching baby magicians how to mend coffee mugs or broken dishes and I sleep in this _shitty_ little room every night.” _Alone_ . ( _Whose fault is that, really?_ ) He bites his lip, shaking his head, eyes to the ceiling, bouncing around, landing back on Eliot, who is watching, resigned, taking it. Like he knows he deserves it. His fingers spasm on his arm, Quentin breathing in deeply as he watches Eliot visibly swallow. Quentin’s eyes burn, his throat constricting, but he forces himself to continue.

“You know _—_ you _know_ that I've spent too much of my life not caring if I lived or died. When I made the decision to…” his eyes squeeze shut, _fuck_ , he’s done such a good job of not remembering this and now all he can see are bright streaks of light coming out of the mirror towards him, searing pain down on leg, his hand nearly evaporating… “to do what I did, I knew I probably wasn’t leaving that room. And it was okay. It was okay.” _Strong arms grabbing his other arm, falling, flailing on the wooden floor next to Alice, screams in the room that were coming from his own mouth._

He feels his face start to crumple, and he clears his throat, looks away from Eliot, who is a statue in the doorway. “You know I can still smell it at night sometimes? Do you know what it’s like to smell, to _feel_ your own flesh burning off your body? To look down and see just the bones of your hand, burned patches of skin and muscle? I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to cast again.”

He shakes his head. “Penny risked his life to pull me out of that room, and I will be forever grateful to him. Because I wanted to live. But I knew that even if I died, if I could save you, it would have been worth it.” Eliot’s eyes are trained on him, not looking away, his face nothing but pain, the light inside dying with every word. Quentin falters, but this _has to come out it has to_.

“And then you left, without saying goodbye, without even seeing me even once. The last fucking thing _you_ said to me in person was ‘I’m alive in here.’” His voice cracks on the last words; he can almost feel the spring breeze on his face in that park as Eliot suddenly clicked into those dead eyes, the fabric of the monster’s dirty jacket under his fingers as he’d pushed him out of Alice’s way.

A pause. Eliot's voice is raw, broken. “I did go to see you.”

\--

_Quentin_

_Then_

_“What do you mean, he left?”_

_Quentin was sitting up on the edge of the hospital bed, wearing his own clothes for the first time in weeks- a ragged hoodie, blue button-down and jeans had never felt so comfortable. He was reaching for a set of crutches nearby, about to head down the hall when Julia’s words had stopped him in his tracks._

_“Well, he went back to Fillory. With Margo.” Julia’s eyes were sad, and a little angry as she sat down on the bed next to him, rubbing a comforting hand across the back of his shoulder._

_Quentin’s mouth opened and closed as his brow furrowed. “Was there an emergency?” he asked._

_Julia sighed and sunk a little deeper into the bed next to him. “I don’t think so, Q.” Her hand kneaded into the muscles of his shoulder._

_A strange sensation crept throughout Quentin’s body, a tingling nausea pouring over his head, sloshing down his torso until it dripped all the way to his toes._ What the fuck? _“Oh,” he said. He stared ahead at the other side of the room. “So he just left without saying goodbye?”_

_Julia was silent. “I’m sorry, Quentin. Maybe he just needs some time, you know, to process. For me, being… where I was, it was… intense. And he was there for a lot longer than I was.” He met her eyes, and she gave him a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes._

_“Yeah,” he said, nodding, disappointment welling up inside of him, rejection roaring in his ears. He was no longer in a hospital room- he was sitting on the raised platform in the throne room, the letter he had written to Margo in his hand, emotions and memories flooding every synapse as Eliot sat next to him, trembling just as he was._ ‘That’s not me, and that’s definitely not you.’ 

_Quentin cleared his throat. Maybe... “So I probably shouldn’t go to Fillory?” He tried to keep his tone flat, but even he could hear the hope in his voice._

_He could see the answer in Julia’s eyes. “Well, you can’t yet- you still have some PT for your leg and hand. Kind of important. Maybe after that?” Quentin nodded once. “Maybe you could send him a letter?” Julia suggested._

_Quentin nodded again. “Yeah. Well, maybe he’ll be back soon.”_

_Julia smiled again in that same way. “Yeah, maybe.” She wrapped her arm around him, moving closer to lean her head on his shoulder. He stared at the blank wall across from his hospital bed._

_\--_

_Quentin whispered along as he read, the corners of his mouth pulling down as he leaned his elbows on his knees. “Things are good here—getting back into the swing of things. They still treat me like a king even though I haven’t been one for a while. Margo—”_

_Quentin huffed in frustration as he looked away, and then back at the letter. The last sentence—_ So much more to do here _—_ I’ll visit if I can. Best, Eliot _—_ _Quentin ran a finger over Eliot’s fanciful script. Each letter had been shorter than the last, the latest just one sheet, generic and perfunctory. He could have written this to anyone—a relative he hadn’t spoken to in years, a long-lost acquaintance from college, his fucking stylist… not him. Not Quentin._

_It had been months, and it was apparent that Eliot didn’t care if he ever saw Quentin again._

_He sighed as he folded the letter, wrinkled and soft from the many times it had been opened and closed in Quentin’s search for some deeper meaning, back into a rectangle. He’d sent his own letter to Fillory when he’d received this one—courtesy of Josh’s most recent trip to Earth for a supply run. That had been a month ago. He wondered if he’d get any response at all. He hadn’t been back to Fillory since he was fully recovered—he’d been waiting for… well, for an invitation. He’d be waiting forever, it seemed._

_“Quentin.”_

_He startled, his head jerking up to look into Alice’s blue eyes, much more ice than warmth right now. “Hey—yeah, sorry. What did you say?”_

_She crossed her arms and breathed out hard through her nose. Her eyes widened when she saw what he was holding. “Are you reading that again?”_

_He looked off to the side, his face growing warm, and stuffed it back in his pocket. He stood up—“So—”_

_“Quentin, this isn’t working.” Alice turned and grabbed her jacket._

_Quentin’s eyes widened._ That escalated quickly. _“Alice, wait—”_

_“No. Quentin, you’re not- you’re not in this.” She turned to face him, folding her jacket over her arm. “Look, I know- I know things have been really hard. With your rehab on your hand, building everything back up again… and I want to be there for you. I want to help you. But I don’t think it’s my help you want.”_

_Quentin took a step closer. “Alice, no—_

_“Quentin, just…” she sighed, taking a step closer to him. “When we got back together, everything was- very… emotional. We didn’t know what was gonna happen. We were clinging on to what was nearby, whatever was… safe. But I’m not what you want. And I don’t- I don’t think you’re what I want either.” She reached out one hand to his arm, sliding it down to grab his hand and squeeze._

_“I do want you in my life. But be honest with me. Does this… us… really feel right to you?”_

_He looked down at her face, her blue eyes wet behind those thick glasses, sleek blonde hair pushed behind her ears. She was so fucking beautiful. But as her fingers squeezed his palm, he knew she was right. His heart wasn’t in it. And it hadn’t been for quite some time._

_He shook his head, not trusting his voice, looking down at the floor. Tears crawled up his throat. Fuck. Why couldn’t he move the fuck on? Eliot had. Years ago._

_“I’ll always love you, Quentin. Take care of yourself.” She gave his hand one last squeeze._

_Then she walked out the door, and out of his life._

_\--_

_“Well, I can certainly find a place for you. It’s the least I can do, after… everything,” Fogg said, standing up, shoving back his chair from behind his desk. Quentin stood up as well, trying to feel gratitude for the man that had replaced his entire existence with someone else… for his own good, of course._

_He reached out and shook Quentin’s hand. “We’ll start you off assisting in PA, then see where you want to move on to from there. Most faculty prefer to live off-campus and portal in, but we do have faculty housing available.”_

_“That- that sounds great,” Quentin said, suddenly realizing how little he’d actually thought about his future. Well, a place to live, could check that off the list he totally hadn’t made._

_“You’ll be the only faculty member that never actually graduated.”_

_Quentin's mouth formed a thin line._

_“Thanks,” he said tightly._

_\--_

_“You can actually go visit Fillory now, you know.” Julia took another bite of her wrap as Quentin balled up his napkin and tossed it on the picnic table. They were sitting outside in the quad as students milled around them. Kady was next to Julia, inhaling a burger._

_“It’s been like, almost a year.” Quentin watched a few students playing around on the small Welter’s board set up under a few trees. One nature student transfigured a square into a little puddle of water, and the student jumped with glee as a fish leapt up out of it. “And the last letter I sent was kind of… short.”_

_Quentin sighed as he recalled it—frustrated at no response from his last two, which he’d poured over, making sure they were the perfect balance of concern, caring, and hopefullness for a visit or at least a fucking response, he’d bitten out a terse, one page note, talking about how great he was and ending with ‘I'll see you when I see you.’ Josh had shrugged when Quentin had given it to him—“I don’t know what his deal is, he literally does nothing but drink all day. But I’ll make sure he gets it.” That had lit up Quentin’s ears—it was the most information he’d heard about Eliot since he’d gone to Fillory. Julia had made a few trips over for one reason or another, but she claimed to have never seen him. It sounded like, since he was no longer a king, he’d reverted back to his old ways—drinking and partying. Just like he’d done before Quentin had ever met him. And after all the trauma he’d been through in the past few years—why not? His body had been hijacked by a malevolent angsty toddler god. If he wanted to blow off some steam, why should anyone stop him? Least of all Quentin._

_Quentin had thanked Josh, and then resolved to put Eliot behind him, just like Eliot had clearly done with Quentin._

_And as with basically everything in his life, it was much easier said than done._

_Still watching the students on the Welter’s board, Quentin continued, “I never got a reply. I haven’t heard from_ anyone _besides Josh_ _in months. If they wanted me there, they would ask me to go.”_

 _Julia exchanged a look with Kady, who rolled her eyes. “Maybe_ they _haven’t because_ they’re _as stubborn as you are. In just as much denial.”_

_Quentin turned to Julia, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”_

_Julia sighed. She opened her mouth to respond, but Kady beat her to it._

_“It means grow a pair and go talk to Eliot. Deal with your shit and move on.” She popped the last bite of her burger in her mouth and wiped her hands on her napkin. “Isn’t that what your shrink told you to do?”_

_Quentin sighed. “Yeah. I’m working on it,” he said weakly. Both Julia and Kady stared back at him until he felt awkward enough to turn away. “He has me doing all these exercises about not bottling up my feelings. Writing them down and articulating what I want. Supposed to help me… make things happen instead of just… allowing them to happen.”_

_Kady smirked. “You’re keeping a diary?”_

_“A_ journal _,” Quentin said defensively. He watched as Julia elbowed Kady, who grinned at Julia’s side-eye._

_“Well, I’m really proud of you,” Julia said. “How are the first-years doing?” They chatted about Quentin’s first few months as a member of Brakebills faculty, until Kady had to leave. He watched as Kady’s hand trailed over Julia’s fingers before she walked away._

_Julia cleared her throat as they gathered their trash. “So,” Quentin began. He saw Julia tense as if she knew what was coming. “What’s going on between you two?”_

_Julia shrugged. “Nothing.” Quentin gave her a_ look _as he slurped the last of his soda before tossing the empty cup in the trash. She rolled her eyes. “I dunno. Stuff.”_

_Quentin grinned. “What happened with Penny?”_

_Julia shrugged as they walked towards the Energy Center; Julia was meeting with Fogg to discuss a project around pulling magical energy out of some Fillorian rocks Julia had bought back a couple of weeks ago. Quentin suspected Fogg was trying to get Julia on as a faculty member, an idea that really appealed to Quentin. Then he could be one of_ two _Brakebills staff without a diploma._

_“Didn’t work out,” she said vaguely. She studied him as they walked. “Back to what we were talking about earlier—you should go see Eliot. Even if it’s just to like, yell at him. You need to get that shit out if you want to move on. And he deserves to know how he made you feel.” He was silent, his grin falling off his face._

_“I don’t even know what I’d say, Jules. It’s been so long. I doubt he even thinks about me anymore.”_

_Julia rolled her eyes. “I think your therapist would call that ‘catastrophizing.’ But you have to at least try.”_

_They reached the Energy Center, and he held the door open for her. Fogg was waiting, and he half-listened as they chattered excitedly about the glowing green rock (it_ really _looked like kryptonite) that was sitting next to Fogg, under a heavy glass display lid._

_He turned Julia’s words over in his head. The thought of seeing Eliot again lit a fire in his belly, for all kinds of different reasons. But he wasn’t ready to face him- there’s no telling what would come out of his mouth if he actually saw him again._

_\--_

Quentin

Now

“I did see you.”

Quentin stares at him, the words hanging between the two, his heart threatening to beat a hole through his sternum. He looks at Eliot, really looks at his tall frame clad in skinny trousers, button-down, tie, and vest. Not a single graphic tee in sight, this was the Eliot that had made his stomach do a backflip at first sight. “No, you didn’t.”

Eliot is staring at Quentin’s feet, the shadows of the hallway making it look like he’s at the end of a long, dark tunnel that he’d clawed his way up to get to this bedroom. “Yes, I did. After I was able to get out of bed and... walk and you were finally awake for longer than an hour, I went to see you.” He leans against the doorway again, his hands in his pockets, eyes moving from Quentin, to the window, and then back. He clears his throat _—_ “You didn’t see me. And I _—_ what I wanted to say _—_ I couldn’t… and it was cowardly. I should have just talked to you, but I ran instead.”

 _What I wanted to say…_

Quentin feels an intense pressure in his chest, a cold wind flowing over him as his fuzzy red rage blanket is yanked away, sucked out of the room, through the window, shredded to ribbons cascading like confetti to the green grass below. All of the anger is just _gone_ , and in its place is the smallest warmth that he hasn’t felt in months, fueled by the tiniest flame of hope, flickering, struggling to survive. His face softens, his shoulders drop, his body sags, his mind empties and he zeroes in on the broken man in the doorway.

“What did you want to say?” he asks softly.

Eliot’s mouth opens and closes and he sort of folds in on himself, shrinking before Quentin’s eyes. Quentin can see something leaving him, and he takes a step forward, knowing he has to grab it before it escapes.

“Why didn’t you say it?” Quentin almost whispers, his eyes gazing up at Eliot.

Eliot looks at him and whatever he sees in Quentin’s eyes seems to break him even further, and a choked sob escapes. He runs a hand over his face and says, “You had Alice.”

Quentin swallows. 

“I wanted _you_.”

\--

Eliot

Now

Eliot sags back against the doorframe. His hands drop to his sides, his fingers flexing as the urge to just _reach out_ is almost suffocating him. He can feel the letter in his pocket, _What did you want to say?_ , and he could just hand it to Quentin and flee back to Fillory, leave the next step in his hands- but he’s here to be brave. 

The air is heavy as he looks at Quentin, just five feet away now. _I wanted you._ Part of Eliot is waiting to wake up from this dream- no way this is real. But he shoves that away, he came here to try, and _fuck_ he isn’t leaving until he’s said everything he wants to say.

“I wanted you, too.” His voice is more solid now, now that Quentin seems to have let go of some of the anger, now that he seems… more open. Even as he thinks it, guilt stabs in Eliot’s gut. He deserves Quentin’s anger, all of his rage and resentment. His legs almost buckle as Quentin’s words reel through his mind- _Do you know what it’s like to smell, to feel your own flesh burning off your body?_ Shame courses through his veins; he had never even said thank you to Quentin for almost dying so he could live.

“You did?” Quentin’s words draw him back to the moment, he says it like it’s a question and a statement all rolled into one. And while to Eliot it’s an absolute fact, a testament he would live and die for, to Quentin it must just seem like some distant song lyric he couldn’t remember he heard.

_But I knew that even if I died, if I could save you, it would have been worth it._

He met Quentin’s eyes now, those brown eyes drawn down into such confusion. Elliot's hand starts to reach up, he starts to step inside, and he grabs his wrist with his other hand and forcibly clasps his hands in front of his waist as he jerks himself back into the doorway. “Yes, Quentin. I did. I do. I always have.”

Emotions play on Quentin’s face as he gazes at Eliot, his lips parting, eyes widening and then narrowing. Eliot can see the need, the _want_ to believe there, but the trust is just… it’s gone. Eliot took it all with him when he went to Fillory, where he carefully tore it into pieces so small they could fit through the eye of a needle.

“Then why _—_ ”

“Because I didn’t want to be selfish. I thought that leaving was- was the right, the _heroic_ thing to do.” He stops and inhales, his ribs rattling with the deep breath. His eyes close. “Ok, that’s a lie, I knew it was cowardly. Just _—_ leaving without saying anything, at least. But, I’d already played a part in breaking up you and Alice once. I couldn’t do it again.”

Quentin sits on the bed slowly, hunching over, resting his elbows on his knees. He runs his hands through his hair, and then sits up. “Is that what you wanted? For me to not be with her?” he asks the wall across from him.

“I wanted you to be happy.”

“And you didn’t think, for one fucking second, that maybe I should be the one to decide what makes me happy?” Quentin’s voice is stricken again, but this time there is no anger. He just sounds very, very tired.

Eliot can see Quentin in that hospital bed, his face pale but somehow absolutely glowing as Alice’s fingers trail across his jaw. “When I saw you with her, the look on your face… Q, you _were_ happy. I felt like I would just get in the way of that.”

Quentin lets out a sharp laugh. “Well, you did. We broke up because she knew my heart wasn’t in it.” His eyes slid over to Eliot. “My heart wasn’t with _her_. It wasn’t even here on Earth.”

Eliot sucks in a deep breath, ignoring the spark of hope trying to catch in his chest. If he let it go, it would rage like a bonfire. There were still more things to say. 

_Ok, here we go. “_ The place I was while the monster… I had a lot of time to think. And I spent a lot of it working through things… looking back at my life. My biggest regrets. Turns out I have a lot of them.”

Quentin stares at the wall, not even glancing at Eliot. The five feet between them may as well be the void between Earth and Fillory. 

Eliot continues. “That day, in the throne room… after…” Quentin’s eyes cut over to him, and Eliot knows he doesn’t have to explain further. “I was scared. Terrified, even. We had fifty years together. And when you told me that we… work, I just thought… there’s no way lightning would strike twice, you know?”

Quentin is fully looking at him now, his eyes glossy like he’d aged ten years in the past twenty minutes. Those brown eyes are dim right now, weary as he listens. Eliot remembers how bright they had been, full of possibility… and that light snuffing out as Eliot said ‘That’s not me, and it’s definitely not you.’ He hears the whispered whimper of 'Okay, I… Okay. Sorry,' as Quentin’s shoulders hunched down and he looked at the floor.

“In what world would we not only get one lifetime of happiness, but two? And I- I just shut it down. I didn’t believe that- that we could have that. Again.” His mouth tastes sour, bitter like iron, and he swallows. Quentin is still looking at him, watching him.

“This past year… I haven’t been good. I drank a lot. Even for me. Margo, she… she’s tired of my bullshit. Of my... self-destructive tendencies. At least that’s what Dr. Speckles calls them.” At Quentin’s raised eyebrow, he added, “Long story.”

“She threatened to kick me out. I thought about coming back here, but after I didn’t respond to your letters, I didn’t… know if you’d care if I came back.” He’s talking to his shoes now, but he can still feel the heat of those brown eyes tracing over him. “It’s hard to be in Fillory. It’s hard to be anywhere these days when all I want is to be with you.”

He’s silent, then. There’s still more to say, but he tentatively looks up at Quentin, wanting to see… anything on his face. His mouth goes dry as the intensity in Quentin’s gaze, the questionable consideration of _‘Do I trust this?’_ naked on that beautiful face makes him spiral into hopefulness and simultaneously grounds him for the impending misery coming when the door is slammed in his face.

“Why now?” Quentin whispers, his eyes finally breaking away from Eliot, to the blank wall, and then back again.

Eliot chuckles ruefully. “Um, I got some help. And someone… reminded me. Of what it was like when I was in there. Of the promises I had made. And I had to try.”

\--

_Eliot_

_Then_

_“For you.” Josh set the letter down on the table in front of him, next to his drink. It had his name scribbled in a familiar script, and his heart beat tripled as he stared at it. He grabbed his glass and nearly drained the scotch remaining inside._

_He didn’t miss the look Josh and Margo exchanged. He picked up the letter and shoved it in his pocket, thankful that he’d chosen pants that actually had pockets today—you never knew with Fillorian fashion. Clearing his throat, Eliot said, “Glad you’re back; we were running low on… provisions.”_

_Josh rolled his eyes. “You know, I’m getting tired of breaking his heart every time I go back. Those sad little puppy dog eyes… they haunt my dreams. Next time you can go and tell him why he hasn’t heard from you in months.”_

_Eliot ignored him, his chest tight, turning to Margo, trying to blink the haze from his eyes. “What were you saying, Bambi, about the festivus?”_

_“Oh, now you wanna fucking talk shop? The meeting ended fifteen minutes ago, El.” Her mouth was set in a thin line, and she set down the pen she’d been writing with. A few scattered pieces of parchment were on the table in front of her._

_Eliot looked around, and sure enough, they were the only two sitting at the table. The blood rushed to his face, Margo and Josh’s eyes burning into him. “Um, sorry. I’m a little…”_

_“Out of it? Yeah, no shit.” She looked at him and sighed, and then glanced at Josh. He picked up on her hint immediately, and all but fled the room._

_“El,” Margo said softly, her eyes tender and angry all at once. “Babe. Talk to me.”_

_Eliot’s eyes stung and he blinked hard a few times, reaching for his glass- oh, it’s empty. When had that happened? He looked back up to Margo, and she reached a hand across the table, grasping his fingers. Her touch was warm, solid against his cold skin._

_He stared at her hand, his fingers trembling slightly, waves of something crashing up and over his head. Then he cleared his throat and pulled his hand back, settling back in his chair, spine straight, legs crossed. “What’s there to talk about? Fillory is starting to prosper again, there hasn’t been a catastrophe in at least six months, and we have a healthy supply of liquor delivered monthly. Things are just grand.”_

_Margo’s lips pursed. “You’re right. Things_ are _grand for Fillory. But they’re shit for you. Eliot, you… your body is here, but I have no idea where your head is. You sleep all the time. When you are awake, you’re drunk.” She sighed and sat back in her chair. “I mean, the state of your clothes alone—if the Eliot from two years ago could see you, he’d have a coronary.”_

_Eliot looked down at his shirt, frowning—a dark purple silk button-down, fastened to the middle of his chest. It was rather wrinkled… as were his slacks. He could see some discoloration near the bottom of the shirt… some old stain. He exhaled harshly and looked away._

_“You used to have the shiniest wheels. Now they’re just… rusted. You’re not—you’re not_ Eliot _.” He looked back into her eyes- full of concern and love. “Look—festivus starts tonight. Go take a bath. Put on that vest and cape you love, and let’s have a drink together. Find some hot villager, follow him back to his hut.” She looked so earnest that Eliot couldn’t help but chuckle. She brightened immediately, leaning across the table and grabbing his hand again. “Come on. How long has it been since you got a good dicking down?”_

_Eliot shifted, feeling the movement of the letter in his pocket. The smile slowly dissolved off his face. It was hard to go to a party when he felt like an open wound. “I-I don’t think so, Bambi. But thank you for trying.”_

_Her face fell, and for a terrifying moment he thought she was going to start crying. Then she sucked in a breath and gripped his hand hard, her eyes turning almost desperate. “I know you went through a lot—but you never want to talk about it. I thought I had lost you. I don’t want to go through that again. Please, Eliot. I thought—I hoped coming here would help you get over—everything. That you could figure out how to be happy again. But I think you only came here to hide.”_

_Eliot scoffed, looking off to the side, focusing on the candle flickering in an ornate holder against the stone wall. He knew if he looked at her for one more second, he’d lose it. He didn’t deserve the care or compassion in her eyes- he deserved wrinkled, stained clothes, to spend his life drifting from one day to another. “Like you’re the poster child for dealing with your issues. I see the looks between you and Fen. I’m not the only one hiding from something.” The words flowed easily, much more easily than anything real would have._

_Immediately Margo’s eyes grew cold, hard. “Fine,” she said shortly. “Be that way. But I swear to God Eliot, if I wake up and find you face down in your own vomit, I’ll never forgive you.” Then she stood up and stalked out of the room._

_Eliot exhaled, slumping down in his chair. Tears stung his eyes, and he wiped them away. His thoughts were jumbled, and he forced himself to take a few deep breaths. He needed another drink. Instead he reached in his pocket, and pulled out Quentin’s letter._

_It was thinner than the past two - he had written a lot in those, about his days teaching at Brakebills, how he was doing without Alice… When he’d written that he and Alice had broken up, Eliot had wrestled with himself for weeks- should he go back to Earth? If Alice and Quentin had fizzled out with no interference from Eliot, maybe there was a place for Quentin and Eliot in this universe._

_But Eliot had reread that letter, all of them Quentin had sent so far, and Quentin seemed like he was doing just fine… a rarity in his life, and something he’d finally achieved only after being far away from Eliot. His last couple of letters had proved that- his words painted the picture of contentment, fitting in at Brakebills, refining his magic, molding new minds. He had mentioned visiting, getting away from work…_

_Eliot hadn’t replied back. He’d tried, but every time he put a pen to paper, he thought of that note that was still in his trunk. He hadn’t pulled it out since he’d first tossed it in there and shut the lid, but he still knew it’s contents by heart. And what fell out onto any new page were huge, dramatic words that would be better served burned into ash instead of in front of anyone’s eyes._

_Least of all Quentin’s._

_But right now, sitting at the table off the throne room, in his dirty, wrinkled clothes, his greasy hair falling in his eyes, Margo’s words echoing in his mind… she was right. He was hiding. He’d promised Quentin, some other Quentin but still Quentin, in that place, that he would be brave. Maybe he was ready to do that now. Maybe Eliot would write back and invite him. For a visit. Here in Fillory. After he had his clothes cleaned._

_And a few baths._

_He ripped open the letter, taking care not to tear into Quentin’s script on the front. One piece of paper fell out, and Eliot opened it up. It was short. Just a few sentences. His eyes traced over the ink, pressed hard into the paper; Eliot was surprised it hadn’t ripped in some places._

_He swallowed as he read it eagerly- and then his face fell as a chill went through him, a dread that he had been waiting for the past several months finally settled over him. The words he read were innocuous enough- although he used the word ‘great’ about ten times. Work was great, Julia was great, he was great, he hoped Eliot was great. And he’d see him when he’d see him._

_Eliot got the message underneath, though. Behind the pressure of the pen against paper, the sharp cut of the fold. I’m done waiting. I’m done asking. Hide all you want; I don’t care if I never find you._

_He got up, grabbing his glass and heading over to the liquor cart. He needed a drink._

_\--_

_He was drunk. So drunk. Like, even for him, should probably consider calling a healer, drunk._

_Ok, he was moving. Down the hallway—this is familiar. Oh, shit! He’s going to his bedroom. With someone. Someone holding him—this had possibilities. A short someone—brown hair—smelled like cheap soap—he turned his head, pressed his nose down into the head next to him, which grunted as he pulled Eliot along._

_“Quentin,” he said, surprised._

_Quentin opened up his door, nearly dropping Eliot, who grabbed onto the doorframe. “Who?”_

_Eliot frowned. That wasn’t Quentin’s voice. He turned and looked- brown eyes. The nose was kind of bigger, but those lips were just as pouty as he remembered… if a little thinner than his memory said._

_Vincent, his brain supplied. One of the visiting representatives from… somewhere? “Sorry you got stuck putting me to bed… usually Rafe or Tick has that honor. You- you’re cute, you know.” Even though he hadn’t used that flirtatious tone in months, it slid right out of his mouth with a practiced ease._

_Vincent smiled and blushed, his brown eyes looking around the room like someone was gonna jump out and yell ‘Psych!’ at any moment. “You look like him,” Eliot said. Vincent swirled in front of Eliot, then solidified, and then swirled again._

_Vincent’s brow furrowed as he’d basically carried Eliot over to the bed, depositing him on top of his covers. “Who, sir?” he’d asked again._

_“Quentin,” he had whispered. Vincent’s expression had changed, understanding blossoming… and more than a bit of pity. It didn’t matter, though. “He doesn’t care, though. And don’t call me sir.”_

_Vincent had smiled at that, and Eliot’s heart had beat just a bit harder. If he closed his eyes, he could almost picture…_

_He’d leaned forward, forgetting that he was up on the bed and drunk off his ass, and had basically fallen over and on to Vincent, who probably would have been more amenable, had Eliot not been blabbering on about Quentin and, again, drunk off his ass. Vincent had gently pushed him back onto the bed, where Eliot had immediately passed out._

_Well, apparently Vincent couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut, as Margo had thrown open the door to his room way too early the next morning._

_“What the fuck, Eliot?”_

_Eliot jerked awake, palming his head. Fuck, it hurt. “W-what?”_

_He felt his hand rudely yanked away from his forehead._

_“What. The. Fuck.” He looked into the dark eyes of one very pissed off Bambi._ Shit _._

_“You came on to one of the representatives of Coria? He’s engaged to the Lorian duchess, Eliot. I was up at four in the fucking morning trying to prevent a fucking international incident.” Fuck, his head was pounding. What did he drink last night? Or smoked? Or ingested?_

_“I don’t- I don’t think I—” Fuck, what had he done last night? All he could remember was Quentin, and he knew he definitely hadn’t been here._

_Margo rolled her eyes, moving her hands quickly. Suddenly his vision was clear, his pain was gone,and he felt like he could breathe again. One look into those angry eyes though, and he was ready to crawl back under the blankets._

_“Um. Hi,” he said blankly._

_Margo crossed her arms and stared at him, harsh breaths exhaling from her nose. “That’s it. You’re going to Dr. Speckles.”_

_Eliot looked at her in confusion, and then his eyes widened. “What? No. Bambi—no. I do not need a psychiatrist. Let alone one that’s a- a talking giraffe.”_

_“Not up for debate, Eliot. You go to the fucking giraffe forest, you sit down on that goddamn log, and you pour your depressed little heart out to Dr Speckles. Or you’re out.” Her arms, her entire frame really, was practically vibrating. He saw the slightest quiver of her lower lip, which she clamped down on immediately. She was serious._

_“We have a giraffe forest?” he deflected._

_“Yes, right next to the Southern Orchard.” She didn’t move, her chin held high._

_He swallowed, realizing he’d used up all his rope. “You’re… kicking me out?”_

_That lower lip quivered again, and a tear fell down her cheek. “If I have to, I will. Eliot, I fucking love you. But you are just… killing yourself. And I can’t watch you do it anymore. I’ve been… enabling this shit for too long. The staff, the entire fucking kingdom—_ everyone knows _that you’re a goddamn mess. You have to at least try to fix it. This is your last chance.” Her face crumpled, and he leapt forward, enveloping her in his arms, nestling her right under his chin. She sobbed into his neck, her tears streaking down his chest._

_“Okay,” he said. “Okay. I’ll go. I’ll go. I’m so sorry.”_

_His tears cascaded down his cheeks, falling into her hair._

_\--_

_He was reclining on a chaise lounge in his room—his favorite piece of furniture. Burgundy fabric, dark stained wood feet, and he could lay back and throw a hand up and over his head very dramatically. Today, though, he was settled back against the pillow, both hands resting on his chest, legs stretched out, staring at the wall._

_He’d been seeing Dr. Speckles for two months—for a giraffe, he was an adept therapist. Twice a week Eliot made the trek down to the strip of forest just beyond the Southern Orchard, where he did, indeed, sit on a log (surprisingly comfortable) and looked up and up at his… giraffe psychiatrist, and talked about his day. His life._

_Fillory didn’t really have ‘medication’ per se, but the doctor had supplied Eliot with a collection of herbs that he drank with his tea or smoked that left him very… mellow. He hadn’t had alcohol in three weeks. It was a start. He still spent too many days in bed, engaged in his favorite activity—revisiting how he’d fucked up every aspect of his life._

_Today, at least, he was fully dressed- Josh had told him that Julia was visiting, and he was determined to at least make it out of his room and say hello. He’d made it as far as putting on a clean pair of pants and a tunic, before he’d thought he’d lay down for just a minute. That had been a half-hour ago._

_“Hi.”_

_He startled, and his head jerked in the direction of the soft voice- and saw Julia standing there, watching him. He started to rise, and she shook her head, sitting down in a nearby chair._

_“Don’t get up, I don’t want to disturb you.”_

_He sat up, but did relax back into the chaise. “How long have you been standing there?”_

_“Just a minute or two.” She gave him a small smile. “Wanted to come say hi. I’m gonna leave soon. Go back home.”_

_He nodded. “Sorry I wasn’t around much. I’m, uh-”_

_“Yeah, Margo told me,” she said. He swallowed as he imagined_ that _conversation. “She said you’re doing better. Not drinking as much?”_

_He sighed and shifted uncomfortably. “It’s a… work in progress.”_

_They sat in silence for a moment. He desperately wanted to ask about Quentin, it was on the tip of his tongue, but if he asked, she would answer. And he wasn’t sure if he truly wanted to know the answer._

_“So,” she said, shifting in her seat. “I’m probably the closest person around that may have some idea of what you went through. And even I can’t pretend to understand the extent of it. But I can tell you the way you’re relating to that chaise lounge is not unknown to me.”_

_His eyes flicked over to her, seeing a small grin forming on her lips. He couldn’t help the same from forming on his face, even as the memory of her, so small, lit cigarette clutched in between her fingers, a level of suffering he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy, stabbed him in his heart._

_Playing along with the memory, he responded, “Then you know I want to be alone.”_

_She sat back in her chair, pulling her legs up and under her. She picked up her chin—“Well you’re not gonna be.”_

_Smiling more than he had in months, he said back, “Why do you care?”_

_“Because Quentin does.”_

_His face dropped, his heart freezing up as regret ached in his gut. He broke his gaze from her, turning his body and putting his feet on the floor, running a hand over his brow. “I doubt that.”_

_“I don’t,” Julia said, her voice soft. She got up and sat next to him, turning towards him. He kept his body pointed forward, his eyes darting over to her, and then back._

_“I know what it’s like to be trapped in your own head. You got out… but you’re still there. You need to pull yourself out before you lose everything. And you could HAVE everything. You just have to go get it.”_

_His mouth was dry, his fingers spasming. He clasped them in front of his knees, and he turned to look at Julia. “His last letter, he—”_

_“He’s hurt. I’m not saying it’s going to be easy. But it’s possible.”_

_Eliot looked down at his clasped hands. When he was in the hospital, they had talked just enough for him to know that she’d been trapped in her own prison. She seemed to have taken it better than he had._

_“When you were in the sister… where were you? What was your ‘happy place?’”_

_She looked at the window across the room, a wistful smile on her face. “The old house I grew up in. One room in particular- it was supposed to be a dining room, but we never used it for that. It just had this small old table. Underneath it, Quentin and I had drawn a map of Fillory. It always made me feel safe, to be there.”_

_He smiled. All roads lead back to Quentin Coldwater, it seemed._

_“So what do you say?” He turned to meet her eyes. “Put some real pants on and go save yourself.”_

_He smiled and looked down at his linen trousers. “These are real pants.”_

_She arched an eyebrow at him. He looked at her for another beat, and nodded. “Can I go back with you?”_

_Her smile grew larger. “Yep,” she said, popping the p._

_“Let me put on some ‘real pants’ and I’ll meet you outside?”_

_Julia nodded and left the room. Eliot walked over to his closet and dug out a few items from his Earth wardrobe he hadn’t tossed out- a dark pair of slacks, burgundy button down, vest, and a tie. After he got dressed, he was about to leave, when he stopped at the door. Turning, he went to his trunk at the foot of his bed._

_He opened it up, rummaging around until he saw it at the bottom- the letter he’d tossed in that first night he’d arrived. It was crumpled, and he smoothed it out. He stuffed it in his pocket, and left the bedroom without looking back._

\--

Now

“Quentin, I am so sorry. I’m sorry that I was a coward. That I lied to you about how I felt about you… more than once. I have a lot of regrets, but the biggest mistake of my life was not being brave when you needed me to.” Quentin is not looking at him, sitting on the edge of his bed, tears streaming down his face. He says nothing, and Eliot keeps going. Even if he gets shoved out the door on his ass, he has to get it all out.

“Most of all, I need to say _—_ thank you. You saved me. You pulled me out and you… you _believed_ . You and Margo are the only two people on this Earth and beyond that could ever do that for me.” He stops, and inhales a shaking breath. “I- I don’t know what’s going to happen after today. But this, here, right now… this is me trying. Trying to- to somehow make you understand how much I will be forever grateful to have had you in my life, even if… even if I don’t get to have you again.” His voice cracks and he breaks, tears flowing unchecked down his cheek. “I need you to know that you make me _want to be better_. And I will forever be sorry that it took me way too fucking long to tell you that.”

Silence hangs over the room. The birds have stopped singing, the wind is no longer blowing, the blue and white curtains completely still next to the open window. Quentin has his face buried in his hands, and Eliot hears a sniffle as he stands there. Eliot waits and waits, and just when he’s about to turn and leave, Quentin speaks.

“Do you wanna come in?” Quentin asks, standing up next to the bed. He looks straight at Eliot, his eyes red, but dry. Behind him, the blue and white curtains gently move with the spring breeze.

Eliot looks at Quentin, wet hazel eyes locked on brown. He nods. He steps inside, paper crinkling in his pocket. Quentin is already reaching for him as he takes one step, then another.

The door clicks shut behind him.

\--

tbc in Chapter 2: a perfect place to cry


	2. a perfect place to cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six months after the events of Chapter 1, Quentin and Eliot take a trip together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here is the stupid huge chapter 2 to my folklore submission that basically makes chapter 1 look like a prologue. This was NOT meant to be almost 30k, but whelp, here we are.
> 
> This was inspired by [“the lakes,”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tOHcAc3r2kw) a bonus track on the folklore album. It directly follows Chapter 1, but there is some time jumping, just like in Chapter 1.
> 
> There is a happy ending to this story. But there is some sad shit along the way. Like sad canon shit. NOT Quentin’s death. Everyone comes out alive and happy, I promise. You can read more in the End Notes if you want more info, or feel free to DM me on Twitter or Tumblr. 
> 
> Many thanks to:
> 
> * [ Hoko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoko_onchi/pseuds/hoko_onchi) for her cheerleading, beta work, AMAZING ART WORK, and just being an awesome person.
>   
> 
> * [Evelyn](https://twitter.com/wow__then) for providing such inspiring content and letting me borrow from their [incredible online zine](https://gumroad.com/l/didithappen).
>   
> 
> * [Ambiguous Penny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmbiguousPenny/pseuds/AmbiguousPenny) for their… contributions.
>   
> Y’all all rock. Out loud.

Now

Quentin

It’s so weird, how everything he sees tickles his memory and brings back a new, but somehow familiar, feeling. As soon as they’d arrived at Wolfwater, the village closest to their old cottage, Quentin’s brain had started lighting up, echoes of a lifetime long-forgotten forcing themselves to the forefront of his mind. It seems that everything triggers memories—the dull, brown tree trunks, overgrown with ivy or moss, the crunch of sticks and pebbles under their feet, the smell of the Fillorian air, clean and musky like pine. And, you know, the tiny rush of opium flowing through his veins.

He and Eliot walk through the market, hoisting backpacks loaded with supplies from Earth over their shoulders, the weight making the straps dig into their shoulders. They probably overpacked, but they have no idea if they’ll be here days or weeks, as they’re ‘playing things by ear.’ Their eyes meet, wide and alert, and Quentin knows Eliot is right there with him, feeling that eerie deja vu as sensations and remembrances flood every synapse. It’s not unlike that experience in the throne room, under the wedding arch, just with a dozen or so memories, instead of fifty years worth.

They’re drawing some looks as they walk through the village—they  _ are _ both former kings, although Eliot is obviously more well known than Quentin. They’re dressed in their Earth clothing, with heavy backpacks strapped to their backs, and originally had no plans to stop by the village. But when Quentin had spotted the familiar path, he couldn’t help the urge to see how it’s changed. And, even though decades have passed, it’s more the same than different.

There’s the stand where Eliot would argue with the fruit seller over if a cantaloupe was ripe. And the blacksmith stall where Quentin would barter his mending magic for tools to use at the cottage. The village itself is older, weathered, patched together a time or two… but they are the same buildings he remembers. From a different lifetime. He looks at a wooden barrel of peaches and can’t stop the smile from tugging at his lips.

“Unreal,” Quentin says as they pass through the main square. While he’s feeling a plethora of emotions as he looks around—happiness at seeing the peddler’s shop where he found a few Earth books over the years, sadness at seeing the path he walked so often to Ari’s parents, a bittersweet nostalgia at the makeshift fountain where Teddy would run and play with other kids—the main sensation he feels is the warm spread of tenderness in his chest, of gratitude for being able to see this today. He never thought he’d be back here. And as he looks over at Eliot, who’s also smiling, that warmth blossoms into a gentle light. There was a time not too long ago he thought he’d never see Eliot again, either.

Eliot nods. “Blast from the past,” he agrees, his eyes soft as he looks around. His eyes land on Quentin, and upon seeing the look on Quentin’s face, he smiles, leaning down for a kiss (not an easy feat with several pounds strapped to his back). “What’s going on in there?” he asks lightly. His eyes tighten, as though he’s afraid of the answer.

Quentin grins. “Just happy to be here. With you.”

Eliot relaxes slightly, replying, “Me too.” He adjusts the pack on his back. “Although I’ll be happier when I can put this down. Anyone who does this for fun is insane. I was not made for backpacking.”

Quentin chuckles. “I can think of a few things you’re made for.” He peers up at Eliot through his lashes, who, from the way he’s looking at Quentin, has suddenly forgotten all about his backpack. Quentin can feel his face grow warm as he continues, “I think it’s another hour or two so to the cottage.”

“Well,” Eliot drawls, arching an eyebrow at Quentin, leaning towards him. “We shall not delay. I am suddenly very eager to reach our destination.”

Quentin laughs as Eliot strides forward. He jogs and catches up with him, just as a villager stops Eliot.

“Sir,” the man, dressed in typical Fillorian garb, steps in front of them. “Are you the former High King Eliot?”

Eliot swallows, looking between the man and the ground. “Um,” he says, glancing at Quentin. “Yes?” he says tentatively. He hasn’t been a high king for quite some time, he hasn’t even stepped foot in Fillory in six months Earth time, which would be… who the fuck knows in Fillory. Margo had mentioned something about the past year when they were back at the castle, so over six months, less than a year. Maybe.

“It is good to see you looking well, my sire,” the man continues, and Eliot puts his hands up, shaking his head.

“Oh, I’m not your sire,” he says quickly, looking to Quentin for help and finding only an amused smile.

Nonplussed, the man barrels on. “I own a small farm nearby, and you were of such help in growing our crops when the magic… wasn’t here. We heard of your sickness last year, and were afraid it would take you to the Underworld. I am happy to see that didn’t happen.” The man reaches out and grasps Eliot’s hand, wrapping his other on top of them, and shakes Eliot’s hand solemnly. 

Quentin’s smile fades as Eliot looks down to the ground, clearing his throat. Eliot’s ‘sickness’ hadn’t taken him, but he still fought with it every day. Which was part of why they were here in the first place.

Eliot gathers himself and looks back up at the man, a familiar smile in place. Quentin instantly recognizes it—that false smile that he would wear when running interference with eager classmates at the ‘bar’ they’d set up downstairs at the cottage, when he was called on in class and had no idea what the answer was, or when he was hearing petitions in the throne room. Quentin hasn’t seen that particular smile in quite some time.

He hasn’t missed it.

“Thank you, sir,” Eliot says graciously. “I appreciate your concern, but as you can see, any rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.” He gives the man’s hand one final shake, and then turns to Quentin. “Shall we?”

“Sure,” Quentin says, nodding to the man, who watches them go. They walk in silence for a moment, the dry leaves crunching under their feet. The air is warm, with a slight chill to it—fall is coming. Or whatever Fillory’s version of fall is.

“That will forever be my legacy in Fillory,” Eliot sighs as they venture further into the woods. “A drunken mess useful only for his knowledge on the many uses of literal shit. Dear god, I’ve become my father.”

“Hey,” Quentin says, stopping and turning to Eliot. “Don’t say that. Because it’s crap. You helped those people.” He looks up into Eliot’s eyes, and his heart bends at the anger and disappointment there. Quentin knows the emotions there are self-directed. He knows that feeling all too well. “It’s a lot more than most kings did.”

Eliot looks back at him for a moment, and smiles. “True. Not all kings would get down and dirty with their constituents.” 

Quentin rolls his eyes and continues forward. “Come on, I wanna make it there before dark. Besides,” he continues, smirking at Eliot, “like I said. I have way more uses for you than your knowledge of shit.”

Eliot’s laughter echoes throughout the trees.

\--

_ Then _

_ Eliot _

_ The door clicks behind Eliot as he takes one step, then another, paper crinkling in his pocket as he wraps his arms around Quentin, his cheeks wet as new tears flow from his eyes. He feels exhausted, his heart wrung out but also overflowing as he nearly collapses into Quentin’s arms.  _

_ Quentin fits right under Eliot’s chin just like he always has, and Eliot can’t stop himself from pressing his face into Quentin’s hair, tears falling onto his scalp. He smells like soap and linen. Quentin’s arms are wrapped around his torso, fingers clutching into Eliot’s back, his body trembling slightly. He’s warm, both of them squeezing so hard they should probably start to worry about their ability to breathe, and  _ fuck  _ how did he go so long without this? _

_ They stand there for a minute, two, Eliot sniffling, trying not to get snot in Quentin’s hair, letting the reality roll over him that he did it, he said the words, not all of them but enough, Quentin heard them, and at least let him in the door. He doesn’t know what’s next, but if this moment lasted an eternity, he would happily spend the rest of his life in this little room. _

_ Finally Quentin shifts against him, picking his head up from Eliot’s chest and turning it, burying it in his neck. His hands are still on Eliot’s back, but they shift from gripping tightly to a soft rub, moving up and down, one hand pulling out from under Eliot’s arm to move to the back of his neck, and then Quentin’s fingers are in his hair, combing through the strands. Eliot swallows as he feels his body start to respond—a warm coil unraveling in his gut, his eyes closing and thighs tightening as he sighs. it’s been a while… a really long time since he’s been touched this way. _

_ Eliot still has his arms wrapped around Quentin, one around his waist, the other settled just below the back of Quentin’s neck. Quentin turns his head and Eliot feels soft lips against his hot skin, kissing at his collarbone and then up his throat. A soft noise escapes Eliot’s mouth, and his hand moves up and tightens on the nape of Quentin’s neck as he dips his head and Quentin pushes up and captures Eliot’s mouth. _

_ This… this was not what Eliot was expecting today, what he dared hope to dream for, but as he kisses Quentin, just a gentle brush of lips, he thanks whatever deity is shining upon him right now. He hasn’t kissed Quentin,  _ this _ Quentin, in years, but the feelings of connection, rightness, and tranquility feel so familiar, like this has been right at the tip of his fingers and he just kept fucking missing it. _

_ The kiss is chaste, even as he adjusts and tilts his head, spreads his palm over Quentin’s back as Quentin presses back against him, lips coming apart and then back together. That warmth in Eliot’s belly is spreading into his limbs, and he’s almost light-headed as Quentin applies more pressure, kissing him hard.  _

_ He’s not sure who’s the first to deepen the kiss, but their tongues are sliding together and Eliot groans, his cock half-hard and he’s not sure when that happened. Both of Quentin’s hands are in his hair, holding his head close, not that Eliot has any plans on going anywhere. Eliot is drinking in every part of Quentin—his rough lips, moving urgently against his own. The way his fingers grip and relax in Eliot’s hair, sometimes caressing down his neck. The hard line of his compact body, pressed right up against Eliot, and Eliot shudders as he feels his dick starts to respond. _

_ Quentin’s hands move down to Eliot’s waist, and he gently walks Eliot backwards until Eliot's back hits the door he was standing in the way of only moments ago. Eliot slots a leg between Quentin’s, and Quentin’s body starts to move, slowly grinding up against Eliot’s thigh, little sounds leaving his throat and Eliot swallowing down every one. Things are moving, escalating faster then they probably should, but Eliot can’t find it in himself to care. He’s dreamed of this man every day for over a year, and if he can, he’ll kiss him all night. _

_ Apparently Quentin has more than kissing in mind; Eliot gasps as Quentin palms the bulge in his pants, and then Quentin’s hands are moving, undoing his belt, pulling down his zipper. Quentin’s mouth descends to Eliot's jaw, nipping and licking, then to his throat. Eliot’s eyes roll back in his head as he thumps it back against the door. He’s overwhelmed, the fantasies of the past year are becoming reality, the warmth and wetness sending him spiraling. _

_ “Quentin—” he whispers, cutting off as Quentin’s fingers slip inside Eliot's boxers to wrap around his dick. Quentin shifts his body over to the side, still keeping Eliot pinned against the door, pressing against his thigh as Quentin gives Eliot's now fully-hard cock a few experimental strokes.  _

_ Things are  _ very  _ rapidly approaching the point of no return, and while Eliot is finding it  _ really  _ hard to fault Quentin’s logic at the moment, he knows they have a  _ lot  _ more to talk about. Like, define the relationship, talk more about their time apart, what they both want from the future, what do you want to do for dinner, and  _ fuck _ , Quentin has shoved Eliot's pants and underwear down his thighs and is now fully jerking him off. _

_ “Quentin—not that I don’t—fuck—maybe we should—” Sentences are just not a thing that exist right now as Quentin is kissing his way down Eliot’s neck, grunting in frustration when he reaches the collar of his shirt and tie, not wanting to let go of Eliot’s cock long enough to take anything else off. _

_ “Can we just not talk?” Quentin mumbles. He pulls back, still slowly stroking his hand up and down Eliot’s dick, looking into his eyes. Quentin’s pupils are completely blown, his eyes still red-rimmed from his earlier tears. His face is red, his lips puffy from using his mouth on every inch of Eliot’s skin he could reach. “Can I suck you off?” _

_ Eliot stares at him, the words bouncing around in his head.  _ What is this day? _ “O-Okay,” Eliot says, as if there was any other answer. Quentin immediately sinks to his knees and without hesitation, he slides his lips around the head of Eliot’s cock. _

_ Eliot presses his body back against the door, resisting the urge to thrust right into Quentin’s willing mouth. “Fuck, Q,” he says, he can’t remember the last time his dick was this hard, and Quentin moans around him, one hand reaching up to caress his balls while the other grasps the base of Eliot’s cock. _

_ Quentin moves over the head, licking and sucking, and it’s like he knows, fucking  _ remembers  _ exactly how Eliot likes it. Slow and gradual right around the head, building up his speed, using his lips, and Eliot wants to touch him so bad but he’s not sure what’s acceptable, if he can even participate, and then Quentin takes the hand he had wrapped around Eliot’s cock and grabs one of Eliot’s hands, placing it right on the back of his neck. Then he dives back in. _

_ Eliot can’t stop the sounds coming out of his mouth, especially after  _ that  _ move, what the fuck Coldwater, and he’s gasping and babbling while one hand is firmly grasping the back of Quentin’s neck and the other is gently combing through the strands of Quentin’s hair. _

_ Had he forgotten how good Quentin was at sucking cock? Or had he not allowed himself to remember? The memories from the mosaic were sporadic, sometimes clear and in HD and sometimes fuzzy and badly lit. When they had flooded in, all at once, Eliot had never bothered to examine them too closely, there were way too many things inside those memories that he absolutely had to ignore. When he was captive in his own mind, with nothing but time, he had avoided the mosaic. After he’d opened the door, he couldn’t stand to remember the good times when he had caused nothing but heartbreak upon his return. _

_ What a fool he had been. _

_ Eliot looks down at Quentin, whose eyes are closed as his lips move further down the base of his cock, taking in so much of it, breathing harshly through his nose. Eliot gently pushes Quentin’s hair back from his face, and Quentin opens his eyes and looks up at him, his gaze full of fire. His eyes flutter shut again and takes Eliot so far in that his cock is hitting the back of Quentin’s throat. _

_ That’s all it takes and Eliot is coming down Quentin’s throat, his legs shaking, without even a warning and Quentin takes it all, not letting up until Eliot gently pulls him away. Eliot pulls Quentin to his feet and kisses him, thrusting his tongue in his mouth, feeling fresh tears track down his face. _

_ He maneuvers Quentin over to the bed, yanking up his pants so he can move his legs enough, kissing Quentin the entire time. Quentin falls on the bed and Eliot sinks to his knees on the floor, pulling away and working at Quentin’s pants. As he’s pulling down Quentin’s fly, Quentin stops him, pulling him up to the bed. _

_ “Come up here with me,” he says, and Eliot immediately obeys, climbing on the bed, laying next to Quentin. Eliot gazes down at him, Quentin’s eyes are guarded but wide, like he can’t believe this is all happening. Eliot knows exactly how he feels. _

_ Eliot reaches inside Quentin’s pants and pulls out his cock, fully hard and leaking at the tip. Eliot smears the pre-come over the head of Quentin’s cock, and Quentin’s eyes close and he gasps, Eliot moves down the bed, but Quentin stops him. Eliot looks at him, a question in his eyes. _

_ “Kiss me,” Quentin says, pulling hard on Eliot’s shirt. Eliot nods and kisses him eagerly, his hand working over Quentin’s cock, up and down, in the same rhythm that he thrusts his tongue into Quentin’s mouth. Quentin has his hands in Eliot’s hair, pulling and almost clawing as Eliot’s hand moves faster. _

_ In a minute or two Quentin’s pulls his face away from Eliot’s and gasps, coming all over Eliot’s hand and Quentin’s stomach. Eliot works him through it, burying his face in Quentin’s neck, trying hard to catch his own breath. _

_ Eventually they both still, Eliot half on top of Quentin, both still fully clothed and completely wrecked. Eliot picks his head up and looks at Quentin, who stares back at him with weary eyes.  _

_ Eliot's heart stops at the dullness he sees in his gaze. He quickly realizes that… this could mean one thing to him, and something completely different to Quentin. _

_ What just happened? Was this a one-time thing? The start of something new? Or did Quentin need to do this in order to move on? Was this good-bye?  _

_ Then Quentin smiles at him, large and bright and blazing, and Eliot nearly starts crying all over again. He leans his forehead against Quentin’s and smiles back, and then gives him a soft kiss. _

_ “Thanks for inviting me in,” Eliot says softly. _

_ “Thanks for knocking,” Quentin replies.  _

_ \-- _

Now

Eliot

As they approach their destination, Eliot’s pulse starts to race. He’d thought about this place a lot in the past six months, especially in the past few weeks after they’d made the decision to come here. He’d thought he was ready to remember this, the last place he can really recall being happy. With all the talking he and Quentin had done about this trip, comparing their favorite memories, piecing together some that were still fuzzy, he felt like he was prepared to see everything again. But if the hard ball of anxiety forming in his stomach was any indication, he was wrong. He was nowhere near prepared.

They weren’t even sure if it would even be here. Someone else could have come along and claimed it as their home, demolished it to the ground for a new extension of the giraffe forest, or maybe they would only find an open field. Maybe the entire place had only existed in some other lifetime, and those memories would vanish forever when they died.

But then they step into the clearing, and there it is. The cottage, with that same thatched roof and a red awning over the front door, although the awning has a few more holes than Eliot remembers. The entire area is overgrown with plants and weeds, and the cottage is covered in purple flowers. As Eliot gets closer, he can see it’s wisteria—vines cling all over the outside of the cottage, and they’ve arrived just at the right time for it to be flowering.  _ A good omen _ , Eliot thinks, almost taken aback at the optimism in the thought. Like the mosaic knew they were on their way. 

Eliot’s gaze moves from the cottage, to the yard beyond. Old chairs are strewn about, and right there in front of the cottage is the source of all their troubles for fifty-plus years—the mosaic.

It still has the same wooden borders, disrupted in places, and the packed sand in the middle is still a brighter white than anyone would expect this deep in the woods. Tiles are strewn all over—animals must have taken up occupancy at one point or another over the years, from the various holes and tracks that litter the yard. Eliot smiles as he remembers the family of talking squirrels that decided to move into some nearby trees and how they kept Teddy up some nights with their gossip.

Eliot and Quentin are silent as they take it all in, and Eliot drops his backpack against the side of the cottage, as does Quentin. Eliot looks over at him and sees tears in his eyes as he stares at the mosaic, and then the daybed across the way. Eliot reaches out, and Quentin takes his hand without hesitation, slotting their fingers together and squeezing.

They walk slowly to the edge of the mosaic, staring down at it. The sand under it is still plentiful; they never seemed to run out, no matter how much of it they brushed off or carried into the cottage in their shoes. Much the same way they never seemed to run out of tiles, no matter how many of them they broke when they accidentally dropped them… or not-so-accidently hurled them to the ground, and once or twice at each other, in frustration. At the end of the day, even if Quentin didn't mend every tile, they always had more than enough reds, blues, and greens.

Eliot lets out a shaky sigh; for the second time today he’s flooded by memories and emotions from a lifetime ago. This invasion is so much  _ more  _ than when he walked into the village earlier today—the handful of remembrances that tugged at his mind then were nothing compared to the flood coming now. 

That tree over there—the one in front of the clothesline (or at least where the clothesline used to be)—he planted it, with Quentin and the grandkids (a boy and a girl… but their names escape him). It’s over twenty feet tall now, with thick roots that disrupt the earth, crawling very close to one corner of the mosaic. 

The daybed, which had been warded repeatedly over the years to withstand all types of weather—as Eliot stares at it, he can feel Quentin’s leg slotting between his as they laid under the sheets, or Teddy settling in beside them as they bundled up in blankets and watched the snow glance off the protective bubble of magic.

And the mosaic itself… he can feel the hard tile against his back, sweat dripping down his neck as he laid on a finished pattern that, once again, produced nothing but groans of frustration. 

Everything here in the forest  _ means  _ something, nothing is worthless in the bank of Eliot’s memories, and he has to close his eyes to stop the deluge of sensation. The woodsy scent of the trees, the sweet tinge of honeysuckle down the path, the fucking taste of chalk dust… Eliot squeezes Quentin’s hand, and Quentin squeezes back just as hard as tries to swallow down the tears he feels burning in his throat.

So many emotions are flowing through him… but the biggest, brightest one is the overwhelming gratitude that he  _ remembers this _ . The fucking thankfulness that the best years of his life were spent here, in this little forest clearing, on what he thought was an epic quest to save magic. And yes, they did save magic. At an almost unthinkable cost, they'd done it. But what he’d really found here was his ability to love and trust someone else. He’d found a path to his own happiness.

Too bad it had taken him so long to fucking realize it.

“It really happened,” Quentin whispers brokenly next to him, shifting closer to Eliot, who opens his eyes and drops Quentin’s hand to sling his arm over his shoulder, tucking him into his side. 

“Not a dream,” Eliot replies, and then he pulls away, stepping between the tiles on the ground. He walks over to the ladder, which is still standing tall after all these years. He runs his hand over one leg of it and the wood, weathered by years of sun and rain, is smoother than he remembers.  _ Come at me, Coldwater. _

He hears movement behind him and he turns to see Quentin next to the daybed, which still has tatters of fabric on it, but he can’t imagine laying down on it now. What is left of the quilts are just large swatches of cloth, and he sees Quentin swallow as he trailed one finger over a swatch of maroon and gold.

Eliot walks up to Quentin and reaches for him, drawing him into a tight hug.

“This—this is a lot,” Quentin says, sniffling, his arms wrapping around Eliot.

“Yeah,” Eliot agrees. “But it’s… it's a lot of good stuff. Yeah?” Quentin pulls away and looks up at Eliot, his eyes shining. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, and he pushes up on his toes and gives Eliot a quick kiss. Then he pulls away, turning to look off to the side of the daybed, at an old, rickety rocking chair.

“Not all of it was good,” Quentin says suddenly. At Eliot’s look, he points to the chair—”you died in that chair. I just looked over and you… you were gone.”

A cold dread hits Eliot in the chest, and he swivels over to look at where Quentin is pointing. He takes a step back, as if the chair is going to spring to life and take a swing at him. He searches his mind—there’s so much towards the end, and it’s all so fuzzy. His back hurt all the time, his chest sometimes too, hobbling around on that black cane, the replica of which is still somewhere in the castle in Fillory… He doesn’t know which memory is the last. What was he looking at when he closed his eyes here for the final time? He looks over at Quentin; he doesn’t see the young, handsome magician standing feet away. He sees an older, white-haired old man with crinkly smiling eyes, a beard so long that he refuses to cut, tied up in some ridiculous beard pony-tail that matches his equally ridiculous actual ponytail on the back of his head.  _ His hair was so long. So white. _

Eliot closes his eyes, opens them again, and Quentin is back to the Quentin he knows, young and awkward and beautiful, his hair pulled back into a little bun with tendrils falling around his face. Eliot takes a step towards him, but Quentin is moving back, turning and taking a few steps towards an open patch of grass. Eliot stops and lets him walk, his stomach twisting. He tracks Quentin, keeping his back firmly to the old rocking chair. 

Quentin’s eyes are wide, and Eliot follows his gaze to the ground, his heart dropping to his feet as he sees what caught Quentin’s attention. There, at the edge of the grassy area, are two tombstones. They are clearly very old, as even from several feet away Eliot can see that the engraving is very faded, the words barely visible.

“Is that…” Eliot says, trying to keep upright as the world tilts under him. This trip has already wrecked him, and they’ve only been here ten minutes.

“I think so,” Quentin says. “I buried you there. After… after I gave the key to Jane. I buried you. In that old quilt, the one we found in the cottage in the first few months? Remember?” He looks at Eliot, his lower lip just barely quivering, the sadness in his eyes spurs Eliot into action. He strides over to Quentin and pulls him into an embrace, and it’s like a dam collapsing. Quentin sags against him, his arms wrapping weakly around Eliot’s torso, his face buried in his neck, quiet sobs wracking his shaking body. 

“It’s okay,” Eliot says, choking back his own tears, burying one hand in Quentin’s hair and rubbing the other on Quentin’s back. “I’m here now. Not going anywhere.” If he can promise Quentin anything, it’s that. He’s not going anywhere. Not without him.

“I left notes,” Quentin continues, his arms tightening around Eliot. “That one for Margo—that—that she got at the castle. And one for Teddy. I told him what happened, that we’d solved it, and I asked… I asked him if I died before I saw him again, to bury me next to you.” Quentin picks his head up, looking back at the tombstones. “I guess he did.”

Quentin pulls away, one hand searching for and grasping Eliot’s. He walks forward, tugging Eliot with him. Eliot follows on weak legs, staring at the tombstones.  _ Their  _ tombstones.

They move close enough to read the words, taking care not to stand on the grass directly in front of them. On the graves… 

The names are faded, but he can see Eliot's on the left one and Quentin's stamped on top of the other. There are no dates on them, which figures, they were never really sure what time meant in that version of Fillory.

On the bottom, there is an inscription that starts on Eliot’s, and ends on Quentin’s.

The Beauty of All Life

Lives on in the Hearts They Leave Behind

\--

_ Then _

_ Quentin _

_ “Eliot...” _

_ His blood is turning to ice, his heart lies shattered at his feet, bloody and broken. He stares at Eliot, where Eliot was, his eyes open but seeing nothing. The latest design is in his lap; two hearts mirroring each other, sketched out in tiny little squares. The red chalk used to color in the heart is so bright and vivid against his white tunic. _

_ Quentin had been gathering tiles for the past twenty minutes when he realized Eliot’s soft humming had stopped. Eliot always hums when he takes a break, when he just needs to sit down for a few minutes. They both move so much slower these days. There are a lot of breaks. _

_ Quentin takes a small step back, forcing his eyes to focus—he’s just sleeping—he’s not—but he is. Quentin knew they wouldn’t live forever, their gray hair and wrinkled, spotted skin was evidence enough of that. But he always thought they’d finish the quest together. No matter how long it would take. _

_ His breath catches as he slowly walks over to Eliot, reaching out his hand, pulling it back before he can touch Eliot’s skin. He knew how it would feel, how it was  _ supposed  _ to feel—wrinkled and soft like the finest leather. Would it still feel the same? How long had Quentin babbled while he picked up tiles, talking to Eliot, who was already gone? _

_ His eyes are burning, but he has to do this. It’s only the two of them. Has been for quite some time, ever since Teddy left all those years ago. They were never lonely, though. Not as long as they had each other. _

_ Quentin reaches down and grasps Eliot’s hand, the one resting on the arm of the chair. He’s still warm. Quentin presses on his wrist and he doesn’t feel it. No sign of life. He reaches out and presses two fingers to his neck—nothing. _

_ He’d felt it just last night. Eliot had laid in bed, and Quentin had curled up next to him, laying his head on Eliot’s chest for a few moments. He can recall, with perfect clarity, that solid thud thud thud of life proving that Eliot was there, alive, okay. But now he’s gone. _

_ Quentin slowly kneels down in front the chair, carefully pulling the papers out of Eliot’s lap. He gently sets them aside, and turns back to Eliot. Quentin takes one last moment to look into those eyes, remembering the kaleidoscope of emotions that has shone through them. When they were hazy with despair. Clear with understanding. Red-rimmed with sadness. Bloodshot with exhaustion. Clouded with frustration. Bright with love. The brightest thing in his entire fucking life. _

_ He reaches a shaky hand up, and closes Eliot’s eyes. Then he pulls both of Eliot’s hands into his own, lifting them to his lips, for one last goodbye kiss. _

_ \-- _

_ Quentin uses magic to move Eliot, though he would have preferred to do it himself. His legs and back are already aching from the work he’s done today; they may not allow him to get out of bed the next morning, but that is so far down on the list of things he gives a shit about.  _

_ He pulls out that old quilt from the chest in the cottage, where it has been for years now. It had been in a pile to be tossed out once they had gotten thicker blankets, but Quentin couldn’t bear to part with it. They had found it a few months after they arrived, stuck in the same chest, and it had been a part of a few… firsts for them. It was only right that Eliot should be buried in it. _

_ He lays it out on the ground, and maneuvers Eliot’s body onto it, where he looks like he’s sleeping. Quentin leaves his glasses on his face—Eliot had hated it when his eyesight had gotten bad enough that he needed them, but Quentin thought they made him look more distinguished. Eliot had rolled his eyes when Quentin had told him so, but he’d worn his glasses daily since then. _

_ Eliot’s head is resting on his favorite pillow, and Quentin arranges his hands around his cane. He’s used it for almost a decade now. Quentin had come home with a plain brown wooden cane, which had led to an argument that he wasn’t ‘a fucking invalid Quentin, I don’t need a goddamn cane.’ He’d changed his mind the next week when he’d taken a spill while walking to the garden, nearly breaking his hip. He’d transfigured the cane into something ‘more befitting his tastes,’ turning it black with a silver rams head on top.  _

_ Quentin takes one last look at Eliot. He hasn’t cried yet, even though he can feel the tears right there on the edge of his throat. He knows they will come eventually. He doesn’t know if they’ll ever stop when they do. _

_ He gently closes the quilt around Eliot, smoothing it down over his body. Then he slowly stands, reaching for the shovel. He’s going to bury him next to the daybed, by the mosaic. There’s plenty of room. He hopes they’ll bury him right next to Eliot, when his time comes. _

_ He hopes it comes soon. _

_ His mind is blank as he grasps the shovel between his two hands. There are a million things he should be thinking of—sending a message to Teddy. Telling their friends in the village. How he has to finish an epic quest alone that he couldn’t solve in fifty years with his best friend. Quentin isn’t sure he believes in soulmates, but if they’re real, then Eliot was his. How he can fall asleep tonight, knowing that he’ll be waking up alone. _

_ He hasn’t woken up alone in decades. _

_ He shovels out one scoop of the soft dirt, easily tossing it off to the side. He pushes the shovel down for the second, and he hits something solid, sending slight reverberations up through the shovel. He frowns, reaching down, fingers pushing through the soft dirt to find what he’s hit. _

_ He touches something smooth and cool. He pulls it out, the surface gleaming as he dusts off the dirt—it’s a tile. _

_ A golden tile. _

_ He’s never seen it before. Red, blue, green, beige, yellow, white… none of them are as bright, shiny as this tile is. It has a textured surface, and it’s absolutely overflowing with magic. His fingers are almost tingling with it, that sensation of something pulling at that corner of his mind that he hadn’t unlocked until that day at Brakebills when he sent cards spiraling through the air. Waves of energy flow from the tile, sparking up his fingers, making the hair on his arms stand on end, and just like that, he knows. _

_ This is it.  _

_ This is  _ fucking it.

_ What they came here to find. What they left their friends for, their entire fucking lives.  _

_ What led them here. What brought them together. What made them whole. _

_His hands shake as he looks at the mosaic, and back to the tile in his hand. There never was_ _any pattern that could have solved the mosaic. There was just this… experience._

_ This life. _

_ This beautiful fucking life. _

_ He walks over to the empty mosaic, standing in one corner, the white sand packed so tightly beneath his feet. The metal of the tile is still cold in his hands, magic still gushing off every edge; now he can even feel it sparking down to his toes. He walks to the middle of the mosaic, and sets the tile down. It’s already starting to light up, and as he slowly stands up and backs away, a burst of magic erupts from every edge. A red glow erupts from the ground underneath the tile, little cracks spreading out, and suddenly the tile is gone, and pushing up from the ground is a key. _

_ It’s tinged with red at first, and then it’s completely out of the ground, standing straight up on its end. It’s been so long since he has even thought about what it would look like, but Quentin knows… this is it. The time key.  _

_ On shaky legs he walks over and picks it up. It’s cool to the touch. Memories long forgotten return to him, of the cottage and the quest, their entire reason for being here. Working to save all of magic. For the future. It’s been so long. He didn’t… he didn’t think this would ever really happen. Sometime after year ten, he’d lost his faith in the quest. But stopping had never even occurred to him. _

_ During their first three years, he and Eliot had talked more than once about just calling it quits. Packing up, trying to find a portal or spell that would send them back to the future. They’d fought over it.  _

We can't just throw away all this time we've invested. You want to live your life, live it here.

_ But even though they’d talked about it, it never went past talking. They still kept trying new patterns, trying to solve it. Then when they had a family, Teddy… Quentin knew they would solve this thing or die trying. _

_ And Eliot had. _

_ As he’s staring at the key, so solid in his hands, when an accented voice calls out. _

_ “Did you just solve the mosaic?” _

_ And when he turns and sees the young girl in her sweater and beret, a key around her neck, he knows… this was what was meant to happen all along. _

_ After he speaks to Jane, and she leaves with a kiss to his cheek, he watches her go. Then he staggers back across the packed sand of the mosaic floor, dazed, light-headed. His throat is tight, his eyes are burning. He collapses to his knees, head in his hands. He sobs. He doesn’t care if he’ll never stop. _

_ \-- _

_ He buries Eliot that same day, tears still falling down his face. He also writes two letters—one for Margo. Another for Teddy. He leaves them on the front counter of the cottage. _

_ After, he picks up the drawings that were in Eliot’s lap when he passed. The design had been one of Eliot’s ideas. Two hearts, meeting at the tip, one mirroring the other. Quentin had smiled when he’d seen it that morning. _

_ “You old sap,” he’d told Eliot. _

_ Eliot had smiled back at him, raising an eyebrow. “I may be a sap, but I’m not old, Coldwater.” _

_ “Yeah yeah, keep telling yourself that.” Quentin had kissed him, heading out to get the day started. _

_ Quentin goes into the cottage. He needs to eat, to drink. Instead he goes over to their bed. His bed now. He picks up the pillow, and delicately places the papers on the bed, settling the pillow right on top. Then he sits down and takes off his shoes. He lays his head down on the pillow, hoping that wherever Eliot is, he knows how happy he made Quentin. That he knows how much he treasured their life together. _

It’s his last memory of the mosaic.

_ \-- _

Now

Quentin

Quentin pulls away from Eliot, wiping his face. Jesus, he didn’t expect  _ that _ . But when he saw the old chair, the daybed where he’d laid with Teddy so many times, and then those tombstones… he lost it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking up at Eliot, who is worriedly watching him. “I—uh—can’t promise I won’t break down again… but I’m pretty sure that’s probably the worst of it.”

Eliot pulls him close again, dropping a kiss on his head. “Come on,” Eliot says. “Let’s move away from the family cemetery.” He lets Eliot pull him back towards the cottage, stumbling over the tiles strewn everywhere. 

The vines have grown even over the door, and they have to magically cut through some that have grown over the door frame. “I don’t remember these flowers,” Quentin says as they tossed some of the vines to the ground. “They’re pretty. Did you just keep it trimmed down, when we lived here?”

Eliot chuckles. “I did keep a lot of the weeds and brush away, but this is aggressive, even for wisteria.” They step back as the door is finally clear. “It’s fitting, really.” At Quentin’s look, he explains, “Some cultures believe that wisteria symbolizes long-life… immortality.” He smiles, looking at the many, many purple flowers coating the outer walls of the cottage. “Suits those of us that are living out our second lifetime.”

Quentin nods, and then focuses on the cottage door. “The last memory I have is when you died,” he says, still staring at the door. He can feel Eliot’s eyes on him. “I remember going to bed that night… that’s it. That's the last thing I remember.”

“Do you think you…” Eliot starts.

Quentin turns to look at him, seeing his face had paled. “I dunno. Maybe?” They look at each other for a long moment before Quentin sighs and squares his shoulders. “Let’s see what it looks like inside.”

He grasps the doorknob, turning and pulling hard, and the door pops open. It’s dim inside, most light from the windows blotted out by the vines. He glances back at Eliot, who is eyeing the cottage warily, and then walks through the door.

The smell hits him first—an old, sour smell that tells him no one has stepped through this door in a very long time. The air is completely still, and little dust particles shine in the pinpricks of late afternoon light that manage to stream through gaps in the vines.

“Oh, shit,” he says as his eyes adjust to the dim light. He looks at Eliot, who has ducked into the front room. Eliot’s nose crinkles as the smell hits him.

“Our TARDIS spells failed,” Quentin says, walking further into the room. He sparks a flame in his hand, and uses it to light a few candles still attached to wall sconces. Well, they’re just ornate candle holders, but Eliot always referred to them as sconces.

The corner of Eliot’s lips tug up as he follows Quentin. “I don’t think Thibadeau would appreciate you comparing his Planar Compression spells to something made up from a science fiction show.”

“Then he can fight me, because that’s the correct terminology.” Quentin looks around the small space, able to pick out more details now that there is more light.

They had added one extra room, and enlarged the main front room and the side room that already existed. The extra room is still there, as they physically built that and it’s connection to the main house, but both rooms are considerably smaller than he remembers. Luckily it looks like there wasn’t much in the house when the spells faded—Quentin suspects that whoever buried him most likely cleaned up whatever damage had occurred.

The bed is still against the far wall, and a few empty shelves line the far wall. The kitchen area is the same as Quentin remembers—a wood burning stove, cabinets and countertops covered in dust. There are a few dishes sitting out on the counter, piled up and ready to be washed. That had been their routine—stack up the dishes and whoever’s turn it was would wash them all in the outdoor basin Eliot had set up. Whatever may have been stuck to those dishes is long gone now.

Quentin crosses over to the bed, which has been stripped down to the mattress, but there is one sheet of paper sitting at the head. He peers closer, and for the umpteenth time that day, he feels his heart stutter in his chest. A mosaic pattern. Two hearts mirroring each other, meeting at the point.

Quentin picks it up, gently, afraid it might disintegrate under his fingers. But it’s solid, albeit very thin. Eliot walks up behind him, placing his hands on his shoulders.

“I guess whoever cleaned up left that here,” Eliot says, reaching around to drag one finger around the edge of the page.

“It was probably Ted,” Quentin replies. He lays the paper back on the bed and turns in Eliot’s arms. One hand wraps around the nape of Eliot’s neck, pulling his head down at the same time he pushes up on his toes. Their lips meet and Quentin kisses him softly, needing the reminder that everything he’d seen in the past fifteen minutes was from a lifetime long passed. 

Eliot responds, tightening his arms around Quentin, pulling him snug against his chest. Quentin feels a slight tremble in Eliot’s frame, and he deepens the kiss, knowing that Eliot is searching for that same reassurance he needs.

His tongue slips into Eliot’s mouth as Quentin threads his hands through Eliot’s hair. It only takes moments for the kiss to become more heated than Quentin intended, and he’s debating how dirty the mattress really is when Eliot pulls away, panting slightly.

He clears his throat, resting his head against Quentin’s as his fingers flex on Quentin’s back. “As much as I hate to press pause on this, maybe we do the life-afirming sex  _ after  _ we clean up a little?”

Quentin smiles, giving him one more chaste kiss before pulling away. “Stopping sex to clean up. Not what I’d expect from my former king...” He can feel Eliot’s smile at his back as he ducks back outside to grab their packs.

\--

They spend the rest of the afternoon cleaning up the essentials—casting a few charms that made the mattress almost as good as new, clearing the dust out of the cottage, gathering the tiles into one large pile in the middle of the blank mosaic, and, at Quentin’s insistence, cleaning up the daybed and placing new wards on it. By the time darkness is falling, they’ve cleared the vines from the cottage windows and have unpacked their supplies.

They weren’t sure what they’d be walking into, so they brought sheets, blankets, a tent, all kinds of non-perishable food, extra clothing. Way more than their packs could fit, but a TARDIS spell or two had taken care of that. They had spent a couple of days with Margo, Fen and Josh at the castle before heading out here. Quentin had thought it would be awkward, his first time seeing them in almost two years, and Eliot’s first time back since he’d run back to Earth with Julia. When they’d come through the portal, Margo had hugged Quentin first, a lot harder then he’d expected. Then she and Eliot had gazed at each other for a few moments, her hands clutched in Eliot’s, having some silent conversation that lasted over a minute. Finally they’d embraced, tears in both of their eyes.

They’d had a fun few days with them, hearing about the latest political intrigue (the talking animals were pushing for more royal representation, wanting  _ every  _ species to have a seat at court, and as Margo argued, she lived in a castle, not a fucking ark) and just hanging out. It hadn’t escaped Quentin’s notice that there wasn’t a drop of alcohol anywhere in sight, and he suspected within the entire castle, which wasn’t necessary, but appreciated.

Josh had filled their bags with a ridiculous amount of extra food, spelled to stay fresh until they were ready for it. They should be good for at least a week or two before they need to venture back out. Or head home. Quentin didn’t think they’d be out here that long, but he was prepared for anything.

After they eat, Quentin wants nothing more than a shower and to collapse on the bed inside, but he allows Eliot to convince him to go to a nearby spring (or  _ lagoon _ , as Eliot calls it) that they used to frequent. It’s only a fifteen minute walk, and as he looks up at Eliot’s face smiling in the moonlight, a kind of peace he hasn’t felt in months settle over him.

He’d spent the year after he almost died (well, the last time he almost died) in a state of ‘well, what now?’ while his friends were moving on, living their lives now that all catastrophe seemed to be behind them. When Eliot had shown up at his door, after they’d… reconciled, Quentin had thought things would be easy. They’d fall together, find a new, easy rhythm of life like all of their friends had. 

Per usual, he was totally wrong.

He shoves that line of thinking away, focusing on the now. This trip, this  _ time  _ is for them. When Dr. Reeves (first name Lydia,  _ not  _ Keanu, as Eliot had asked when Quentin had first mentioned her) had suggested they take some time away, this had been the first place to pop into Quentin’s mind. It had taken some convincing on Eliot’s part to get him to agree.

_ “I don’t know if it’s a good idea to go back to Fillory.” Eliot frowns as he leans against the kitchen counter. _

_ They’d just finished dinner, at the penthouse, where Eliot is staying. Julia and Kady had left to deal with something at one of the safe houses. Kady has been working with several covens in the area, and she was a kind of an ‘Area Leader’ in the city. She and Julia are gone most nights, and often Eliot with them. He helps out Kady with the newer magicians that come into her safe houses, and other odd jobs. _

_ Quentin nods. He moves to stand next to Eliot, staring straight ahead at the refrigerator a few feet away, stealing little glances at Eliot out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah, I—I get that. I just think it would be... good for us. To go back there. Take some time just for us.” Quentin looks down at his feet, sneaking a glance over at Eliot. “I—I know I’ve been busy at work, and—” _

_ “This isn’t your fault, Quentin,” Eliot says sharply, crossing his arms. “This is  _ my  _ fault. You can’t fix this with a vacation or—or whatever. This isn’t something you can mend like in your class.” _

_ “Hey.” Quentin moves to stand in front of Eliot, ducking under him until Eliot meets his eyes. They are bright, his jaw clenching as he attempts to keep control. “Babe. I’m not trying to fix you. Trust me, I—I know that doesn’t work. We just—we just need some time to breathe. And that’s… that’s honestly the last place I can remember where we did. Breathe. I know it’s… it’s the last time I can remember being really happy.” _

_ Eliot exhales hard, clearing his throat. “Yeah,” he says softly, not meeting Quentin’s eye. _

_ “Remember how you said lightning doesn’t strike twice?” It’s hard, seeing Eliot like this, even harder to force himself to keep eye contact, but right now, Quentin has to be the strong one. _

_ Which, really, should be a sign that they are  _ completely  _ fucked. _

_ Eliot gives a sad chuckle, nodding. Quentin reaches out with one hand and slots his fingers through Eliot's, who tugs Quentin closer. They’re inches away now, Quentin tilting his head back to look up at Eliot. He reaches up and pushes Eliot’s curls away from his face, Eliot leaning into his touch. _

_ “Well I think that’s bullshit. It’ll strike as many times as I want it to. And I can prove it to you. If you’ll let me.” Eliot puts a hand on Quentin’s hip, pushing up the bottom of his shirt to run his fingers over the skin underneath. It’s  _ distracting _ , how his touch reverberates through Quentin’s entire body. _

_ Eliot smirks down at Quentin. “Okay. I’ll let you.” He leans down and kisses Quentin, slow and sweet. He pulls back—“But I’m just saying, you could probably prove it to me at a little Bed & Breakfast in Vermont. With room service.” His voice growing softer, his eyes searching Quentin’s face, “We don’t even know if it’s still there, Q. If it… if it ever was.” _

_ Quentin nods, staring at Eliot’s collarbone, peeking out through the open buttons of his shirt. “Yeah, that’s true. And if it’s not, then we’ll… I dunno, crash with Margo at the castle for a while. I always wanted to have sex in a castle.” _

_ Eliot frowns, then shrugs. “Well that’s easy enough to check off. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, though, staff everywhere, hard to get privacy…” He trails off at the look on Quentin’s face, and quickly changes the subject. “It would be nice to see Bambi again. Letters and rabbits just aren’t the same.” _

_ He sighs, and reaches for both of Quentin’s hands, pulling them up to his mouth, brushing his lips over Quentin’s knuckles. “Okay, Q. Let’s do it. Let’s go… visit our other lifetime. But I’m absolutely not hauling a backpack through the woods.” _

They’ve only been here a few very emotional hours, but already Quentin feels so much lighter. Like when he'd set his pack down at the cottage, he'd also set down fifty years of emotional baggage. Being here, even with the shadow of those two headstones at their back, brings Quentin back to a simpler time. Granted, it was a time that had started off fraught with frustration and uncertainty, but once they had settled in… they had been happy. And they could be that happy again, Quentin knows it.

They just have to get out of their own way first.

He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice they’ve arrived until Eliot tugs on his hand to stop him from walking right into the water. His breath catches as he looks over the little spring (which, he grudgingly admits, under the stars and moonlight, looks very lagoon-like).

Quentin’s memories don’t do it justice. It’s an independent body of water; Eliot theorized that an underground spring fed it, but they never found any evidence of it. It has no fish or wildlife within, which is odd for Fillory. The water is crystal clear, and always the perfect temperature—cool in the warm months, warm or even hot when it cooled down. Someone had built a small dock on one end, and it’s only about eight feet at its deepest point. Surrounded by a steep cliff on three sides, with trees and foliage growing out of cracks in the rock, the spring feels more secluded than a small pond in the middle of a forest full of talking animals really is.

Quentin was sure it had some kind of magical source, maybe an off-shoot of Chatwin’s Torrent, but they had never figured out what it could be. No amount of Mann’s Reveal turned up anything magical about it. Quentin had been nervous about going in, you never knew with Fillory, the water may turn you into a frog or something. His worries had been tested one hot day when he and Eliot had done three patterns in twelve hours, and Eliot had just jumped right in, hardly bothering to remove his shoes first. Quentin could still see him popping through the surface of the water, a big smile on his face while Quentin tried to not have a heart attack on the dock. He  _ seemed  _ fine… and, after an acceptable waiting period to ensure no side effects came about from Eliot’s swim, it had turned into one of their favorite family spots. They’d had a lot of picnics on that dock. And a lot of late night moonlit swims.

Eliot is already taking off his shoes as Quentin walks to the end of the dock, squatting down and trailing his fingers through the water. It’s still clear as day, and pleasantly warm to the touch. He stands and strips off his shirt, and is undoing his pants when a loud splash startles him. He turns to see Eliot breaking through the surface, a familiar grin on his face. He shoves his curls out of his face, and Quentin’s breath hitches as water drips down Eliot’s shoulders, the bright moonlight giving him an almost ethereal glow.

“Hurry up, Coldwater, I’m not waiting all night,” he calls out, ducking back under. The water is definitely clear enough for Quentin to see that Eliot is very, very naked.

In his rush to get his shoes and pants off, Quentin nearly falls off the dock, and while all of his clothes do remain on dry land, he has a much more graceless jump into the water than Eliot had.

The warm water envelopes him, and the dirt and grime from the day wash right off. He breaks the surface, wiping his eyes. Quentin can touch bottom here and the water is at his shoulders; standing on solidly packed dirt and stone that never feels muddy. Eliot’s hand lands on Quentin’s shoulder, his long fingers lingering on Quentin’s collarbone before he tugs Quentin gently in his direction.

Quentin yields happily, turning and then Eliot is kissing him hungrily; he’s been waiting all day for this. As Quentin returns every kiss with just as much enthusiasm, wrapping his arms around him, his fingers pressing forcefully enough on Eliot's back that there might be bruises, he realizes that he’s just as desperate as Eliot is, if not more. They’d just fucked the night before, granting Quentin’s wish of having sex in a castle (and Eliot’s crazy—it was amazing, even if  _ maybe  _ that had more to do with the company than the location), but after arriving here, being flooded with vivid memories he wasn’t sure he truly wanted to remember, trying to pretend that things were  _ normal  _ when they would be sleeping a stone’s throw from their fucking  _ gravestones _ , his need for Eliot is near catastrophic levels. This  _ desperation _ , this  _ compulsion  _ to be close to Eliot, to feel that frantic  _ thud thud thud _ of Eliot’s heart that proves he is  _ alive _ , that Quentin is alive  _ with  _ him, that they are together no matter how much fate wants to fuck them over, is so overwhelmingly intense it forces everything out of his head until all that exists is this moment, with this man.

Quentin buries one hand in Eliot’s wet hair, the other still around Eliot’s torso. He inhales sharply as Eliot’s hands reach down to palm his ass, pulling him in tight, their bodies tangling under the surface of the water as their kisses turn sloppy, teeth bumping and noses colliding. Eliot is half-hard against his thigh, and Quentin’s cock is responding as his pulse speeds up and his muscles tighten in his arms and legs.

God, he’ll never get enough of this; Eliot’s mouth on him, his hands gripping tightly in a possessive touch. Quentin’s memories of this from the mosaic timeline, of kissing Eliot, touching him, fucking him, are these distant, hazy, beautiful pieces with no clear edge to join where one encounter ends and another begins. These past six months with Eliot, after they reconciled here in this lifetime,  _ those  _ pieces are clear, vivid and colorful, exploding with life.

If there’s one thing Quentin will never be confused about when it comes to Eliot, it’ll be their sexual compatibility. They'd 'taken it slow' for a whole three weeks after Eliot came back from Fillory, and Quentin had more sex in the months that followed than the entirety of his life up to that point (well, not counting his other life with Eliot, at the mosaic). They’ve earned many gold sex stars, a first place trophy with a golden cock atop it, all the cash prizes—there were nights where Quentin had genuine concerns they were going to fuck themselves sick from dehydration. Their chemistry is never in question.

It’s just all the other shit they’re not great at.

You know, the actual important crap that matters in a successful relationship.

But right now… right now, in this warm magical lagoon on another planet, there is only Quentin and Eliot. They came here to figure out all that other important crap. And they will. But today, just hours before, they had nearly walked across their own graves. And now they are alive, together, under the Fillorian moons and a sky full of stars shining down on them.

Eliot lowers his hands to just under Quentin’s ass and pulls up, and Quentin goes with the motion, pushing up and wrapping his legs around Eliot’s waist, the buoyancy in the water making it easy. He loves when Eliot does this, they get to be equal height for once, and Quentin grinning like an idiot as he pushes a wet lock of Eliot’s hair behind his ear. Eliot beams back at him, the same stupid smile on his face, before pulling Quentin into another kiss. They float and move together, gasps and whispers echoing across the water, cocks sliding against each other under the surface, and between the warmth of the water and the heat pooling within him, Quentin starts to worry he may soon combust.

Eliot, kissing Quentin the entire way, walks them back towards the dock, where the shore slopes up gradually. He stops once he’s right next to the edge of the dock, the water up to Quentin’s chest and Eliot’s belly. The night air is chilly on their wet skin, but only for a moment, until the warmth rising from the water catches up with them.

Eliot slowly lowers Quentin, who brings his feet down to touch bottom. Eliot’s hands move up Quentin’s back, and then he’s gently pushing, turning Quentin so his back is to Eliot’s chest, breaking away from Quentin’s lips only to trail his own over Quentin’s shoulder. The slope of the shore had been built up here to support the dock, and their height difference isn’t quite as drastic as usual, even though Eliot is still a few inches taller.

Eliot lowers his mouth to Quentin’s throat, nipping and biting up to Quentin’s ear. “Do you remember this?” he whispers, one hand slowly moving down Quentin’s chest, to his stomach. Quentin can feel Eliot’s stiff cock pressing right against the cleft of his ass. Quentin pushes back against it, wiggles, delights in Eliot’s sharp intake of breath.

Faint flashes of the past whirl through Quentin’s mind, his hands grasping the dock for leverage, Eliot warm and wet at his back as his cock slides between Quentin's thighs. But tonight he wants to see it through Eliot's eyes, hear it from his lips.

"Remind me," Quentin rasps out, turning and angling his head to mouth at Eliot's jaw.

Eliot shivers against him, his hands sliding down to Quentin’s thighs, pushing them together. He captures Quentin in another kiss, this one so deep and dirty it wipes all thought from Quentin’s brain.

“Hands on the dock,” Eliot says as he pulls back, one hand moving to his cock.

Quentin’s legs weaken at the commanding tone in Eliot’s voice, and he sucks in a breath, reaching up with both hands to grasp the wooden edge of the dock. Even though he knows it’s coming, when Eliot’s cock slips between his thighs, his eyes slip closed and he can’t stop the small moan that escapes his mouth as electricity sparks through his groin. 

“Just like that, baby,” Eliot whispers, pulling his hips back and then lightly surging forward, breath coming harder as he moves just the head of his dick between Quentin’s thighs, dragging against Quentin’s perineum, sending waves of arousal through his limbs. “ _ Fuck _ , yes, just like that.”

Quentin’s own dick is now painfully hard, bobbing in the water, and when Eliot wraps his fingers around it, slowly stroking the head, one of Quentin‘s hands leaves it’s perch on the dock, reaching up and behind him, to curl behind the nape of Eliot’s neck, threading into the wet curls there. He presses back against Eliot and turns his head to mouth at Eliot’s neck, collarbone, any skin within reach while his other hand digs into the wood, keeping his body in place against Eliot’s lazy rhythm.

“I remember,” Eliot says, “the first time we did this. Here.”

Quentin remembers, too. It was a year and a few weeks after they arrived at the mosaic. Weeks after Quentin, fueled by plum wine and too many nights staring at Eliot’s face lit by torchlight, had leaned over and gave Eliot a chaste kiss that was hardly a fraction of the passion he’d felt swelling up inside of him. 

Thank god Eliot had kissed him back.

“I—I suggested we go skinny-dipping and your eyes got so wide,” Eliot half-laughs, half-gasps as he continues moving, his mouth right against Quentin’s ear, hot breath sweeping across his earlobe.  _ Fuck _ , Quentin thinks,  _ I could come from his voice alone _ . “I don’t know why, we’d already fucked each other twelve ways from Sunday by that point—”

Quentin grunts as Eliot strokes him harder, his wrist twisting, as his thrusts are crossing the line from lazy to intentional, every movement sending him spiraling. “I’d—I’d never gone skinny dipping. And—fuck—we still didn’t know if the water was  _ magical  _ or  _ tainted  _ or if it was like, gonna give us cancer in five years—”

“Well, it didn’t,” Eliot says, nipping at Quentin’s neck. Eliot’s other hand has been splayed on Quentin’s chest, and he reaches up to push two fingers into Quentin’s mouth. Quentin sucks on them greedily, swirling his tongue, realizing that Eliot probably wants to shut him up, but he’s too far gone to care.

The water moves around them with every thrust, their harsh breaths echoing through the open air. “Fuck, Q, you feel so fucking good.” Eliot is close to gone, his hand stuttering on Quentin’s cock as he rocks against him. He pulls his fingers out of Quentin’s mouth, moving it back to Quentin’s chest, pressing him tight against Eliot, like he might escape at any moment.

“What hap-happened next?” Quentin stutters, his body tense, a thread of heat unraveling in his stomach, his groin, in every limb. He keeps his stance in the water, unmoving, letting Eliot use him, taking what he needs, being an anchor that keeps them near shore as they chase their release.

“It took way too long to get you out of your clothes. So worried someone would see.” Quentin fists his hand in Eliot’s hair, gently pulling and Eliot turns and kisses him, his tongue diving into Quentin’s mouth in time with his fist on Quentin’s cock. Water is dripping from their hair onto their shoulders, into their eyes, trailing down their faces, tiny droplets cascading around them.

Quentin pulls away, Eliot’s mouth right back in his ear, panting, telling Quentin exactly what he was doing to him. “The animals do talk here, you know.” He feels Eliot’s lips curl up in a smile, then his teeth tug once on Quentin’s earlobe.

“Eliot,” Quentin gasps out, reaching down to bat Eliot’s stuttering hand from his dick. He takes over, palming his head and stroking from base to tip as Eliot grasps Quentin’s hips with both hands.

“But I finally got you in the water. And once you were in there—here—you were all over me.” Eliot is really starting to move now, thrusting harder, with as much purchase as he could in the water, his fingers pressing hard into Quentin’s skin, his grip sliding.

“Yeah?” Quentin’s head is starting to spin, his belly and thighs tightening, the hand on the dock starting to hurt from clutching the edge of the wood so hard. Eliot has this effect on him, makes him feel like he’s floating and exploding all at once, but here in the water, where he actually is almost floating, the effect is magnified, the feeling that if he and Eliot could find each other not once but twice, anything is possible.

As his balls grow heavier and Eliot’s movements and breathing get more erratic, Quentin tilts his head back to see the heavens gazing back at them, a swirl of stars and moons of all colors burning so far away. He would live his entire fucked up life all over again if it meant he got to have this moment, this time with Eliot.

Eliot’s voice drifts over him, reminding him that, for some reason, they’d been attempting to have an actual conversation while they fucked. “Fuck  _ yes _ , baby, you couldn’t get enough of me.” Eliot’s hands are gripping him so hard and Quentin knows he’s close. 

Quentin closes his eyes and gives himself over to the pleasure cresting inside of him. He pushes back against Eliot, turning his head towards him and whispers, “I’ll never get enough of you.”

Eliot pumps into him for a few more frantic strokes and then he comes with an almost surprised laugh, just before Quentin finds his own release in his hand. His orgasm crests through him, toes curling, fingers biting into the dock above him as Eliot sags against him, resting his chin on Quentin’s shoulder as Quentin works himself through the last few shockwaves.

Quentin keeps his grip on the dock; it’s the main thing keeping him upright in the water. Eliot’s arms are wrapped around his torso, his lips lazily pressing against the side of Quentin’s head, slowly coming back to himself.

On unsteady legs, Quentin lets go of the dock and turns in Eliot’s arms, wrapping him in a tight hug. Eliot squeezes him back, and then lays another kiss atop Quentin’s head. Quentin’s vision blurs, and exhaustion seems to suddenly seep into every pore of his body. The water is so warm, and all he wants is to collapse into bed. Instead he picks his head up and looks up at Eliot, who’s watching him with a small smile. “I love you,” he says, his fingers lazily stroking up and down Eliot’s back.

Eliot’s eyes flash with tenderness, one hand coming up out of the water to gently hold Quentin’s chin. “I love you,” he says back, pulling Quentin’s mouth to his for a chaste kiss.

“Come on,” Eliot says, pulling back. “Let’s head back before we fall asleep and the squirrels and deer have to band together to pull us out.”

Quentin smiles, following Eliot up the shore. “I’m pretty sure they’d just let us drown.”

“Let’s not find out.” Eliot tuts the spell that dries both of them, and they put on their clothes, Eliot electing to make the walk back shirtless, which Quentin has no complaints about. Eliot slots his fingers through Quentin’s as they move down the path towards home, and again Quentin relishes this reality that he never thought he’d ever get to have again.

\--

_ Then _

_ Quentin _

_ “A date, huh?” Julia’s eyes are sparkling as she pops a french fry in her mouth. “What are you guys gonna do?” _

_ Quentin ducks his head, trying to stop the warmth from crawling up his cheeks. “Dinner and a movie.” _

_ They’re sitting at their usual table in the sea, having lunch together. Quentin has been picking at his food; every time he thinks about his ‘date’ later tonight, the larger the ball of anxiety in his stomach grows. Which is ridiculous, it’s Eliot. He’s been spending nearly every night with Eliot, practically in his lap. A date should be nothing.  _

_ But it’s not nothing. From the way his head spins just at the thought of an evening with Eliot that could be termed anything close to a ‘date’, it’s an extremely large something. Maybe it would be easier if he thought of it as something else—an appointment, meeting, excursion, rendezvous… nope, doesn’t help. Made it worse, in fact.  _

_ “Took you long enough,” Julia says, the smirk on her face enough for Quentin to catch on to her double meaning. “It’s been three weeks; more than enough time for him to settle in.” _

_ Quentin nods slowly, tapping his fork against the table. “We’re… taking things slow.” _

_ Which is true. That is a thing they are doing. They may have peeled out at the starting line, but after Quentin removed Eliot’s dick from his mouth and they had an actual conversation, they’d slowed their lap speed considerably. Seeing as Quentin is still in a state of disbelief that Eliot is actually  _ here _ , it’s for the best. Maybe. Yes, totally.  _

_ And technically Eliot is at Julia and Kady’s, but he’s here on Earth, which is a vast improvement from across the universe in Fillory. _

_ “Didn’t look like you were going very slow the other night,” Julia said, still smirking. Quentin rolls his eyes as Julia continues, because oh no, she's not done. “How slow can you really go after a year of mutual pining that your best friend had to resolve for you? That’s a lot of pent up UST to just sit on.” Julia asks, her smirk melting into a genuine smile. Quentin doesn’t have to ask to know how much it pleases her that she’d literally brought Eliot back to Earth. Wrapped him up in a fancy vest and tie and sent him walking straight to Quentin’s door, like a sad puppy waiting under the tree at Christmas. He'll be forever grateful to her. _

_ And he’ll tell her that, one day when she’s not being a complete brat. _

_ He rolls his eyes and decides to ignore her baiting. He’s above all that. “Fine. It’s fine. No need to just jump right into all the aspects—physical aspects—of a relationship, you know? Not everyone is like you and Kady.” _

_ Julia frowns at him, but he can tell by how her lips try to pull right back up into a smile that she’s not mad. “Don’t get snippy just because you’re not getting any,” she mutters.  _

_ “I am getting—” he cuts himself off, sighing as that smirk reappears on Julia’s face. “How is he doing? At the apartment?” Quentin asks, completely putting that subject to bed. To bed…  _ Ugh, are you sixteen? Calm your dick,  _ he sternly instructs himself. _

_ Julia and Kady had offered Eliot a room at the penthouse to stay until he figures out what’s next for him... them here on Earth. Not really much space in Quentin’s single room in the faculty dorm at Brakebills, and while there were empty rooms in the faculty dorm, being on top of each other full-time wouldn’t be very conducive to the… slow part of their relationship. Plus, Quentin is actually busy for once. With non-world altering events. Just mundane work stuff.  _

_ It’s the middle of the semester, and Quentin’s first term actually teaching his own class and not just assisting. Even though it’s just one class, Minor Mending, his day is full of office hours, papers, staff meetings. He’s not sure if he  _ loves  _ teaching, but he doesn't hate it… and it feels good, helping students that come through looking as lost as he was. Is. Whatever. _

_ Most nights he goes to the penthouse for dinner. It’s amazing, having Eliot a portal away. When he’d arrived at Quentin’s door those weeks ago, his eyes dull, hunched over, looking so small and weary, Quentin’s initial instinct had been to lurch forward and take Eliot in his arms. Hold him until he knew that no matter what, he was and would be loved. His second instinct had been rage at being ignored for a year, and he'd be lying if he said that rage had completely drained away.  _

_ But they were working on it. _

_ And now, having him so close, knowing that he’ll be there at the end of the day—it’s quickly becoming everything to Quentin. Eliot’s smile every time Quentin walks through the door, the way Quentin’s heart skips in his chest when he hears a knock on his office door and he looks up to see Eliot standing in the doorway—it’s all still so new, but Quentin knows he’ll never take these moments for granted. _

_ “He seems okay,” Julia says, shoving her food to the side and focusing on Quentin. “I was worried with… all that happened there, last year, being there may not be the best idea. Especially since he’s in recovery, but Kady doesn't like alcohol in the apartment anyway, so at least no temptation handy. And he and I talked, his first night there, a little. I think he’ll be okay. Maybe not a great idea for him to stay there long-term, but for now, it’ll work.” She shrugs.  _

_ Quentin nods. It’s not hard for him to be in the penthouse, not anymore, but he’s had over a year of time and therapy to work through where his head’s at. Eliot’s only had a few weeks, and his therapist is back in Fillory, eating leaves off trees. Although that is one problem they can hopefully solve soon—Eliot is going to meet with Dr. Reeves, who is well-versed in working with magicians, next week.  _

_ When Quentin and Eliot stay at the penthouse, they make an effort to stay in the front room, even if Julia and Kady go to bed or head out for work. Mainly to keep themselves honest about moving slowly, and partly to try to get used to being there. Together.  _

_ They’ve talked a lot. Sitting on the couch, fingers tangled together, faces sometimes inches apart while Quentin focuses really hard on the fact that they need to get to know each other again before they  _ get to know each other again _ in other ways. Like,  _ sexual  _ ways.  _

_ From the way Eliot’s eyes travel down Quentin’s frame, how his fingers sometimes dip below the collar of Quentin’s shirt when he reaches over to push a lock of hair behind Quentin’s ear, and how he shifts his body closer to Quentin while he rambles on about his class that day or whatever pop culture thing Eliot needs to catch up on, Quentin knows he’s not alone in his struggles. _

_ But they’re committed. To being good. _

_ They talk about everything.  _

_ About Eliot’s time in Fillory after the monster, his eyes downcast as he tries to explain why he never responded to Quentin’s letters. Quentin gets it. He does. He’s no stranger to a self-loathing so strong it overpowers reason. He sees something unreadable flicker over Eliot’s face when Quentin mentions that he should have just gone to Fillory straight away instead of writing the first letter. It’s gone in an instant, replaced by a tender smile as he traces a finger down Quentin’s jaw. _

_ About his drinking. “It got real bad, Q,” Eliot tells him, eyes downcast. “Like big black spots in my memory, bad. I don’t think I can really drink again. At all.” He’d turned to Quentin. “But luckily, pot is fine. So I've got that going for me.”  _

_ Quentin had smiled sadly, wrapping Eliot’s hand in his own. “Are you going to go to meetings, or…?” Quentin had seen more than a few addicts during his stays at various hospitals; had seen meetings and heard serenity prayers.  _

_ “No, not—I should probably find something, but AA is a little too… ‘higher power’ for me. I liked Dr. Speckles, even if his sessions did give me a crick in my neck. And his herbs were amazing. I’ll find something here. See what Dr. Not-Keanu-Reeves recommends.” _

_ About Quentin adjusting to a life absent of world-ending events, realizing he had no idea what to do with his life and just falling back into Brakebills. Hating it at first, only seeing pity staring back at him every time he looks at Fogg or Sunderland. But realizing he kind of likes it. The teaching, not the pity. Which has faded, over time. Now he thinks they might even respect him. _

_ About the months before Quentin nearly died trying to seal the monster in the seam. Quentin can feel a kind of delicate balance when they talk about it. Quentin trying not to show that babysitting a monster wearing Eliot’s flesh for fun was enough to nearly kill him without any magical intervention. The way Eliot pauses when he talks about his time in his ‘happy place,’ like he’s taking great care in selecting his words. _

_ Sometimes Quentin will walk into the room, and Eliot and Julia will break off their conversation, or they’ll exchange a look—Quentin knows there are some things he’ll never understand about what Eliot went through. _

_ The same way Eliot will never fully understand what it was like for Quentin. Not knowing, until that day in the park, if Eliot was really in there. And after that day, constantly walking a tightrope knowing that at any moment, Eliot could truly be dead with just a snap of his own fingers.  _

_ The conversation that wrung Quentin out the most, where they almost broke their incredibly stupid rule of ‘taking it slow’ (seriously whose idea was that, anyway?) had been just a few days prior. They’d talked about that day, when Eliot had broken through. Just long enough to get a message to Quentin. _

\--

_ “So,” Quentin says, his thumb stroking over Eliot’s palm, “proof of concept? You definitely got my attention.” _

_ Quentin’s legs are tucked under him on the couch, his body turned towards Eliot, who is facing him. One of Eliot’s arms is slung over the back of the couch, and sometimes he’ll touch Quentin’s hair, push it behind Quentin’s ear, his fingers drifting down to his neck. Eliot smiles, squeezing Quentin’s other hand, which are joined in between them. Combined with the way Eliot’s looking at Quentin, his eyes drifting from his feet, up to his eyes and back, like he could just eat him like a favorite snack, it’s very  _ distracting _.  _

_ “That was the plan,” Eliot said, clearing his throat. The smile drops off his face, and the guarded look in his eye, the way his body shifts to tuck Quentin’s hand closer to himself, makes Quentin sit up straighter, his heart beat a little bit faster. “I told you in your room, a few weeks ago, I had a lot of time to think while I was in there. And that was part of breaking through. Reaching you. Going back through my life. My regrets. I had to wade through a lot of shit in my past. All of it, really.” Eliot is gazing across the room, his eyes locked on something only he can see. Quentin squeezes his hand again, and Eliot lets out a long exhale. He abruptly turns to Quentin, looking straight into his eyes. _

_ “Okay. So in order to find and open the door that would let me break through, I had to find the memory, the moment in my life that I thought of the least. Because it hurt too much.” The hand on the back of the couch is tapping, fidgeting. Quentin is silent, waiting for him to continue. His pulse is racing, a tingling running up his spine. He feels like he’s balancing on the sharp edge of something, with only Eliot’s hand to keep him from toppling over. _

_ “And that moment was… in the throne room.” His eyes are still on Quentin, but focused on his throat, his chest, flickering back and forth up to his eyes. “After we got the time key. When we remembered… everything.” He holds Quentin’s gaze now, and Quentin feels the blood drain from his face. _

_ He knows that moment, of course. Has thought of it daily since it occurred. ‘Peaches and plums.’ He hasn’t had a peach since. _

_ Even though he knows it isn’t what Eliot is saying, has said to him many times over, old habits die hard, and Quentin looks down at their joined hands, Eliot’s fingers strong and true around his, and says lightly, “So your most painful memory is when I asked you to be with me?”  _

_ Eliot smiles, painfully, shaking his head. “No, Quentin. My most painful memory is rejecting you. My biggest regret was turning tail and running when all I wanted to do was kiss you. Because I was scared. That—” _

_ “Lightning won’t strike twice,” Quentin finishes for him. “Do you still believe that?” _

_ Eliot looks at him, one corner of his mouth quirking up. “When I'm with you… no. When I'm not, I… I don't know.” They stare at each other for a long moment, until Eliot breaks away, looking down again. “What I do know, Quentin, is that I love you. And I’ll spend—” _

_ He jolts in surprise as Quentin frames his face in his hands and all but yanks Eliot’s lips onto his own. Eliot’s hands wrap around Quentin’s wrists, and Quentin swallows the small gasp that erupts from Eliot’s throat. Eliot recovers quickly, smiling against Quentin’s lips. After a beat, Quentin pulls away, just a few inches, enough for Eliot’s breath to tickle his face. _

_ “I love you, too,” he says, a stupid grin forming on his face. Eliot smiles back, his face relieved, happy, exhausted all at the same time. _

_ “Oh,” he says, in between kisses, “That’s the first time we’ve said that since I came back, isn’t it?” Quentin nods, leaning in for another kiss, this one less than chaste. It isn't long before their hands are all over each other, Eliot’s smoothing over Quentin’s chest, up to his face, Quentin burying his fingers in Eliot’s hair. He’s half-sitting in Eliot’s lap when Eliot whispers, “So, about going slow—” _

_ He’s interrupted by a key in the lock, and Quentin practically springs off him to the other edge of the couch, whirling to the door like he expects his mom to walk in. She doesn’t, but Julia and Kady do, laughing between themselves. Their laughter stops, but their smiles don’t when they look over at them. _

_ “Are we interrupting?” Julia asks, practically bouncing on her heels.  _

_ Quentin shakes his head, his face and ears red as he draws his legs up in front of his chest. “Nope.” _

_ “Yes,” Eliot says at the same time, frowning, a pillow sitting on his lap. _

_ “Good,” Kady says. “I have a proposition for you, Eliot. Just give me a sec.” Eliot’s eyebrows shoot up as Kady disappears into her bedroom, Julia on her heels, shooting Quentin another smile. _

_ “Well, that’s intriguing,” Eliot says, looking over at Quentin, whose heart is still a jackhammer in his chest. “I wonder what—” _

_ “Do you wanna go out on a date?” Quentin asks, feeling as surprised as Eliot looks at the words coming out of his mouth. His eyes dart between Eliot and the coffee table as he tries to stop himself from curling into a little ball. _

_ Eliot stares at Quentin for a second, and then his face melts into another smile. “I’d be honored.”  _

_ Quentin exhales, and he laughs, smiling back at Eliot. Quentin’s mind is wandering back to Eliot’s words from a few moments before— _ “So, about going slow—”  _ when Eliot starts laughing, running hand over his face. _

_ “We’re really doing this backwards, aren’t we? You're supposed to do the date first,  _ then _ the intense declarations of love.” _

_ “Yeah, well,” Quentin says, stretching out his legs and poking Eliot in the thigh with his foot, “We don’t do things the ‘normal’ way. But we get there. Just takes like, fifty years.” _

_ They’re still smiling at each other when Kady and Julia come back in. _

_ \-- _

_ They go to one of those movie theaters that serves dinner during the movie. Quentin’s never been to one before, and it’s fucking stupid and intensely distracting. The waiters are walking around during the movie, hunching down to read your order; it’s offensive to his nose to deal with even more smells beyond gross movie theater stink combined with stale popcorn, silverware clinking and how can you even  _ see  _ to use silverware? It’s  _ dark _ , as it should be since it’s a movie theater, the experience of which is the whole point of leaving the house and going out in public with other people in the first place. _

_ Quentin orders chicken fingers because he figures that’s the safest thing to eat and not spill all over yourself, but he’s wrong because he drips honey mustard sauce on his shirt. Of course it’s a fucking new shirt that he bought just for tonight, Julia helped him pick it out and while it’s tighter than he’d normally wear, being outside of his comfort zone was worth it for how Eliot’s eyes widened when he’d walked in the penthouse that evening. _

_ He’s peering down at it, dabbing at it with a napkin when the stain suddenly disappears in front of his eyes. He looks up to see Eliot smiling at him, his face flickering in the light from the movie, his fingers finishing up the tut. Eliot gives him a quick kiss, and then leans back in his leather reclining chair, reaching over to slide his fingers through Quentin’s. _

_ Alright, maybe it’s not so bad. But still, if he wanted a full meal, he’d go to a restaurant like God intended. _

_ The movie is some stupid comedy that he forgets as soon as they’re leaving the theater, way too distracted by the radiant smile on Eliot’s face. It’s infectious and Quentin knows he has that stupid grin on his face again. _

_ It’s probably that distraction that leads them to a nearby hedge bar, where Quentin realizes way too late that bringing someone in recovery to a bar is a stupid idea. _

_ “Um, hey,” Quentin says as Eliot pokes at the foosball table. The little players are enchanted to move on their own, he smiles as one row cheers when they make a goal on the other team. “We don’t have to come here. We can like, go back to the apartment.” His eyes are darting around—there is literally alcohol  _ everywhere _. He brought his date who cannot drink to a bar, what the fuck is wrong with him? _

_ Eliot swivels around to look at him, and he frowns at the concern on Quentin’s face. “Q, it’s fine,” he says. “ _ I’m _ fine. It’s just something I have to get used to. Go on, have a drink.” _

_ Yeah, as if. They sit down at the bar and Eliot orders a club soda with lime, and Quentin a Coke Zero. Eliot pulls out a pack of cigarettes, lighting one before handing it to Quentin, and then lighting a second for himself. Eliot looks around the bar; there’s a group of magicians over at the pool table, using spells to aim the pool cues. Quentin, as always, is looking at Eliot. _

_ He’s just unfairly gorgeous. He’s let his facial hair grow into a slight beard and goatee, and it’s somehow perfectly groomed and ruggedly unruly at the same time. His curls are down, those few errant strands falling into his eyes as he smiles when one of the magicians accidently breaks the pool cue in half with an aggressive telekinesis spell. Quentin’s fingers itch to reach up and push it behind his ear, but it’s too public for him to be so bold, so he takes another drag on his cigarette instead. _

_ Eliot turns to look at him and catches him staring. The corners of his mouth perk up as he takes a sip of his water. “See something you like?” He arches an eyebrow as he swivels on the stool to face Quentin. _

_ Quentin smiles, making a show of eyeing Eliot up and down. “Everyday,” he says, catching Eliot’s fingers with his own under the bar. _

_ Eliot leans forward, all dark eyes and white hot smolder. “Coldwater,” he says, voice low, and Quentin feels his stomach flip and his heart stutter, “when did you get so smooth?” _

_ “I have no fucking idea,” he says, laughing, and then Eliot leans forward and kisses him, and the bar disappears for a moment. He tastes like mint and cigarettes. _

_ “So you’re gonna go check out the safe house? With Kady?” Quentin asks when they separate. Their hands are still tangled together, leaning into each other’s space. _

_ Eliot nods. “I think so. She seems overwhelmed with the new hedges coming in, and she’s helping me out with a place to stay, so…” He shrugs, tapping the ash off his cigarette. “She thinks it’ll keep me out of trouble.” _

_ Quentin thinks that’s impossible, but imagining Eliot working with new magicians, just like Quentin does at Brakebills, plucks an odd, affectionate string in his heart. “Let me know if I can help,” he says, his thumb stroking over Eliot’s knuckles. _

_ Eliot gives him that slow smile that lights Quentin up from within, makes his brain short-circuit. “Help keep me out of trouble? That’s not really our style.” He disentangles their fingers and pushes his hand further up Quentin’s wrist, sliding his fingers inside the cuff of Quentin’s shirt, skimming over the delicate skin of his inner wrist, rubbing over the coarse hair on his forearm. Quentin’s gaze drops to Eliot’s lips, and that tunnel vision comes back, just like it always does anytime Eliot touches him. Or he touches Eliot. Or Eliot exists like, within his general ten-foot radius. _

_ He’s pretty sure they’re about to press the gas pedal all the way to the floor, leaving any plans to ‘take it slow’ in the dust. _

_ Eliot’s gaze flickers to the floor, and back up to Quentin. “I was really nervous about tonight, you know,” he confides. His eyes are still bright, but a new vulnerability shines within. _

_ Quentin’s brow furrows. “Me too, but that’s just... my normal state of being. But why would you be? It’s just me.” _

_ Eliot chuckles, his fingers rubbing small circles into Quentin’s arm, and Quentin can feel that touch all over his body, in his thighs, his neck, his cock. “‘It’s just you,” he parrots, not unkindly, shaking his head. His fingers touch as his whole hand circles Quentin’s wrist. Fuck, his hands. “You just have no idea. What you do to me.” _

_ “For you two,” a voice says beside them, and Quentin jerks back to find the bartender dropping off two shots. Quentin frowns as Eliot’s hand slips out of Quentin’s, staring at the drinks on the bar. His eyes widen and Quentin sees him visibly swallow. _

_ “Oh, no,” Quentin says. “We—we didn’t order any shots.” _

_ “Yeah, I know,” he says. “They got them for you.” He points to the pool table. Quentin’s head swivels to see… half of his Minor Mending class. For fuck’s sake. _

_ Once they realize they have his attention, a few of his students hoot and holler, raising their drinks in his direction. Quentin rolls his eyes, knowing his face is flaming. “Oh my god. Those are my students.” He turns to Eliot. “I’m so sorry.”  _ They are so getting a pop quiz on Monday.

_ Eliot is cracking up, his eyes bright as he smiles, big and broad. “I’m not,” he says. He nods to the shots. “You should do the shots. Be the cool teacher.” _

_ “No. No way!” he says, too flustered to protest that he already  _ is _ the cool teacher, thank you very much. He looks from the shots, to Eliot, to his students, and  _ dear god _ , a few of them are walking over. He takes another drag of his cigarette, the wards in the bar evaporating the smoke as soon as he exhales. _

_ Eliot is still smiling, even as he eyes the shots on the counter. Josh, a physical kid, approaches. “Professor C!” he says. “Never thought I’d see you out on a Saturday night.” Josh is cute, short, and smiles way too much. He reminds Quentin a lot of Todd. “Man, it’s so weird to see your teachers out in the wild. You’re looking good!” Josh squeezes Quentin’s shoulder, and Quentin just barely suppresses an eyeroll.  _

_ Eliot is enjoying himself way too much, mouthing ‘Professor C’ over at Quentin, who presses his lips together in a thin line.  _

_ “I do leave campus sometimes,” Quentin says dryly. _

_ “Who’s this?” Jess (short for something that’s not Jessica, Jessalae or something like that), a nature student that is barely passing, is nodding to Eliot. The way she’s eyeing him makes something inside Quentin rear up, and he frowns. “Your boyfriend?” She looks at Quentin with an expectant look on her face. _

_ Quentin’s mouth drops open, and he looks to Eliot, who is not even attempting to hide his amusement. God, he looks so good when he smiles. Even though he's an ass. And  _ what the fuck, Jess, good luck passing now. _ “Um—” _

_ “Yes,” Eliot says definitively, grasping Quentin’s hand again. Quentin clamps his mouth shut, head swiveling between Eliot and his students. Way too much has happened in the past thirty seconds. “‘Professor C’ is my boyfriend. Has been for some time now. Right, baby?” Eliot leans into his space, biting his bottom lip as he winks at Quentin. _

_ “Right,” Quentin says, his brain short-circuiting. Eliot’s entire face is lit up, his mouth curved into that incandescent grin, his eyes bright with intent as he beams at Quentin, and suddenly Quentin couldn’t give a fuck if the entire student body and faculty was here. They’ve ‘taken it slow’ for way too many years. _

_ “And we were just leaving.” He pulls out his wallet, flinging a few bills down on the counter before jumping up and pulling Eliot towards the door. _

_ He hears Josh call out, “You didn't even do your shots!” right before he escapes into the cold New York street, Eliot laughing behind him. _

_ Quentin is already hailing a cab by the time Eliot catches his breath. “You know, I think Josh is angling for more than an ‘A’ from his teacher,” Eliot says as Quentin all but shoves him into the cab. _

_ “Shut up,” Quentin laughs, giving the driver the penthouse address. Then he pulls Eliot to him, shutting him up with his lips. They make out the entire cab ride, in the elevator to their floor, and Quentin has no idea if Julia and Kady were in the penthouse at all because he is so focused on making it to the bedroom before tearing Eliot’s clothes off. _

_ “What happened to ‘taking it slow?’” Eliot asks as Quentin kisses down his throat, hands on Eliot’s belt buckle, their shoes already tossed onto the floor. Quentin hisses as Eliot cups him through his pants, his dick hard and ready. _

_ “Three weeks is slow enough,” Quentin replies, yanking Eliot’s pants and underwear down in one go, then gently pushing him to sit on the bed. “I think I will literally die if you don’t fuck me tonight.” He kneels between Eliot’s legs, his eyes on Eliot’s hard cock, heavy between his legs. It’s even bigger than he remembers, if that’s possible, and he reaches out and strokes it once, twice. _

_ “I would never say no to Professor Coldwater.” Quentin looks up at Eliot, his eyes dark and heated, and he lowers his head to wrap around the head of Eliot’s dick. Eliot inhales sharply, one hand moving to thread through Quentin’s hair. _

_ Eliot gets Quentin off with his hand once, and then fucks him, after taking his time opening Quentin with his fingers and tongue. When he finally slides in, Quentin on his elbows and knees, nearly sobbing with need, Eliot draped over his back, Quentin can think only of lightning and a starry sky above him. _

\--

Now

Quentin

They spend the next day or two cleaning up, mending broken furniture, tossing what can’t be salvaged. They leave the wisteria on the outer walls of the cottage, but they do clear it from the windows and weed most of the yard. 

They stack up the tiles along one side of the mosaic, using telekinesis. The afternoon of their third day, Quentin is out back, fixing up the outdoor shower and basin, and when he comes back, he finds a design laid out, Eliot smiling down at it. Quentin stands next to him, crossing his arms as he looks it over.

He vaguely remembers it as one of their very first designs—a sunrise over ocean waves, or maybe a mountain range. Back when they were bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, convinced they’d be home in just a few weeks time. Before they were realized just how long they could be there.

“This is the first one I ever designed,” Eliot says. “And I’m happy to have it be the last one I ever do.”

  
  


Quentin’s not even sure why they’re putting so much work into the cottage. They have no plans to return after this trip. The puzzle had been solved long enough for word to get around, and any would-be adventurers wouldn’t bother coming this way.

It feels good, though. Restoring the cottage, the entire plot of land back to what it once was. Like when he mends something. Helping it wake up. Remember what it used to be. 

They move the daybed over to the other side of the mosaic. It’s too nice out to not sleep outside, but it was just a little too close to their graves for comfort.

They walk their old hiking paths through the forest, some of which are overgrown, but most are still flat, a thin trail of dirt where feet have traveled over the years. Quentin is not surprised to find that Eliot still enjoys chatting with the animals, some of whom are old enough to remember them. 

Gorri, the turtle that was already super old when they were questing here, who lives in one of the larger nearby lakes, tells Quentin that he looks better “with some meat on his bones,” whatever that means. He also tells Eliot that he still owes him a gold piece from some years ago, which makes Eliot’s eyes go wide, and Eliot demurs when Quentin prods him about it.

“You know what I always wanted to see in Fillory?” Quentin asks on the fourth day, as they traipse back to the cottage, their hands full of firewood. 

“What?” Eliot asks, dumping the sliced up logs on the side of the cottage in the firewood rack.

“Landsharks.” Quentin tosses his logs in the rack, and then wipes the bark off his arms, turning to Eliot, who’s arching an eyebrow at him.

“What the fuck, praytell, are landsharks? They better not be what they sound like.”

“Well, uh, they are sharks that can, um, swim. On land.”

Eliot stares at him for a moment, hands on his hips. He purses his lips, “And where do these, ah, landsharks, live, exactly?”

“They’re up in the Northern Marsh—I think, and—”

“How far away is that?”

“Uh, like a week's travel from here? Why?”

Eliot shakes his head, walking away from Quentin to the front of the cottage. He turns, walking backwards. “I swear to God, Q, when I was king I should have just burned the entire place down.” 

Quentin smiles as Eliot goes back to the cottage. He jogs after him, “So wait! Hold up! Are you like, scared of sharks? Let’s talk about this!”

Soon, a week has passed, and the cottage is a far cry from the rundown, abandoned house it had been when they arrived. The fabric in the awning has been mended, the thatched roof replaced where it had thinned out, and new flowers are already blooming in the window boxes. 

Quentin can’t remember the last time he was so lazy. They stay up late, swimming at the lagoon, or staring at the stars with the mosaic at their backs. They fall asleep together every night, and are tangled up in each other every morning. It’s the best Quentin has felt in years. And when he looks into Eliot’s eyes, he sees the same contentment reflected there.

They’re laid out side-by-side on blankets on top of the mosaic, the fire pit burning a few feet away, torches throwing dancing shadows across the grass, Quentin’s fingers slotted between Eliot’s. Quentin stares up at the night sky, feeling small in comparison to the vastness above them. 

“You ever think about Teddy?”

Quentin’s gaze snaps to Eliot. They haven’t talked much about Arielle and Teddy this week, and Quentin’s brow furrows. “Yeah—of—of course I do. Every day. Do you?”

Eliot looks is looking up at the sky, pensive and Eliot can see a pensive look on his face. “Yeah. Every day.” He clears his throat, turning to Quentin. “I mean, those gravestones… we know it all happened. Here. We could look up his family. You could meet your great great grandkids.”

“Huh.” Quentin turns back to the sky. “Yeah, I guess I could. We could.” He frowns. “That would be pretty crazy, right? Your great grandpas showing up and they’re younger than you.”

Eliot barks out a laugh. “Yeah, well. They should know what it’s really like to be a Coldwater-Waugh. Time bending hijinks, remarkable bone structure, inter-dimensional travel, addiction issues…”

“Suicidal tendencies,” Quentin adds. They’re both quiet for a moment.

“Maybe we leave that alone,” Eliot says.

“Probably for the best, yeah,” Quentin agrees, smiling despite himself. 

They fall into a contented silence.  _ Now, _ Quentin thinks. His fingers tremble, and he feels Eliot squeeze his hand. He clears his throat, his heartbeat accelerating, his eyes darting across the heavens.

“So,” he begins, hoping his voice doesn’t betray his nervousness. It does. “I was thinking.” Then he stops, because words are hard. Especially these words.

Eliot hums, squeezing his hand to continue.

“That I could get a place. In the city. Near the penthouse.” He pauses, and he can feel Eliot’s fingers twitch against his palm. “For us. If you want that.” He pauses again, and at no response from Eliot, he’s terrified to even look at him, words keep flowing. “Like, I know I could move into the penthouse, but I think maybe just a place for us would be better. You know we have a lot of memories there, good and bad, and I’m not saying that we can’t like, make more good ones to just kind of  _ overwrite  _ the bad ones, but that’s not how memories work, god I wish it was—”

He’s saved from himself by Eliot rolling over and placing his lips on Quentin’s. His hand immediately comes up to cradle Eliot’s face, and he can feel Eliot’s smile against his lips.

“Have I told you how much I love it when you ramble?” Eliot’s arms are braced on either side of Quentin’s face, and he pulls back and smiles down at him.

Quentin laughs, moving into a sitting position as Eliot pulls back. “Ass.”

They settle in next to each other, Quentin scooching close until he’s right next to Eliot. The smile fades from Eliot’s face, and he looks down at the blanket’s they’re sitting on. Quentin feels a hard ball form in his stomach, and he forces himself to ask, “So what do you think?”

Quentin sees the bob in Eliot’s throat as he swallows, and clears his throat. When he finally meets Quentin’s eyes, Quentin is taken aback by the naked vulnerability he sees in his gaze. And deep sadness.

“Hey,” he says, running a hand down Eliot’s arm, trying to swallow down the panic rising inside of him.  _ Shit, too much too soon I shouldn’t have fucking pushed. _ “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“No, no,” Eliot says, grabbing Quentin’s hand, tugging on it to pull him closer. Quentin turns, swinging his legs over Eliot’s as Eliot puts an arm around his shoulder. “You didn’t. Not at all.” He runs his hand up and down Quentin’s arm, and Quentin wonders how he’s the one getting comforted when he upset Eliot in the first place. He takes a deep breath, trying to will his heart to calm the fuck down before it beats straight out of his chest.

“Of course I want that,” Eliot says, tipping Quentin’s face up to look into his eyes. His eyes have calmed, and his finger rubs softly against the scruff on Quentin’s chin. “This week, these past six months… have been everything, Q.” He leans in to kiss Quentin on the forehead. Quentin holds his breath as he waits for the inevitable  _ but… _ that is surely coming at any second now.

Eliot sighs, and looks off into the darkness, past the flickering fire pit and torchlight, one arm still wrapped around Quentin, his fingers tightening on Quentin’s shoulder. “I just… I—want this to work with you. So badly. I just don’t think I know how. To not fuck this up.”

“You think I do?” Quentin says, leaning over to press a kiss into Eliot’s neck. “That’s what relationships are, El. Figuring this shit out. Together.”

Eliot looks at Quentin, and his eyes are wild, full of fear and uncertainty. “I’ve already disappointed you so many times. We’re here because of that. I can’t—I can’t lose you again.”

\--

_ Then _

_ Eliot _

_ Eliot’s eyes crack open, blinking against the sunlight streaming in between the curtains. There’s a heavy weight on his chest, legs tangled in his own, and soft hair tickling his lips. Quentin mumbles sleepily, readjusting his head so he’s tucked right under Eliot’s chin. Eliot smiles, pressing his nose into Quentin’s hair. _

_ He can hear movement in the kitchen and living room; Kady or Julia must be up. He hopes it’s just one of them and not both and they’re not attempting to cook breakfast. Kady can handle herself fine in the kitchen, but the two of them together leads to distraction and things burning and Quentin coming in to fix whatever has been damaged. _

_ Quentin mumbles again in his sleep, and Eliot gently brushes his hair behind his ear. It’s been three months since he and Quentin’s first ‘date,’ and while he honestly can’t remember if they’ve actually left the house on another, they’ve definitely been making up for lost time in several other ways. _

_ It’s rare that a day goes by that they don’t see each other, and if they can’t physically be together, they text or have an actual conversation on the phone (like heathens). They’re slowly finding their rhythm—lunches at Quentin’s office, dinners with Kady and Julia, nights in Eliot’s bed, lazy Saturday mornings in the sunlight, just like this one. Eliot still can’t shake that feeling that he’s floating through life, letting the wind blow him as it may, but when he’s with Quentin, his feet are on solid ground, as if he’s a poet setting off down a dirt path with his muse by his side. _

_ He still has that letter. From almost two years ago. He’d taken it out of his pocket the day after he’d shown up at Quentin’s door, and placed it in the little box he keeps his rings and watches in. He’d thought about giving it to Quentin, but by this point, he’d already said everything within. He still keeps it, though. To remind him. That he can be better. That Quentin needs him to be. _

_ And Eliot is working on it. He saw Dr. Reeves for a handful of visits; she referred him to a therapy group for the magically inclined that meets at the community center a subway ride away. Every Tuesday he, along with a handful of other magicians that struggle with alcohol, drugs, darker magics, inadvisable potions, and a plethora of other things Eliot didn’t even realize you could get addicted to, meet on the second floor in a large room with comfortable chairs, a couch, beanbags, and an invisible hammock. They talk about their motivations and beliefs and changing their negative behaviors and Eliot spent the first few sessions hoping the beanbag would just suck him right up.  _

_ It got better, though. He won’t say he’s opened up to the room full of strangers, but he knows he’s not alone. _

_ Dr. Reeves wanted to continue seeing Eliot for personal sessions, like even more often than once a week, but he just never bothered making more follow-ups after he started going to group. He has enough to deal with, he doesn’t need to start digging into all of his daddy issues. He’s already done that in his own mind and has no urge for an encore. _

_ Quentin had frowned when Eliot had mentioned it but hadn’t pushed the issue.  _

_ He gently extricates himself from Quentin, who rolls over and hugs his pillow. Eliot pulls on his underwear and a robe, and slips out his bedroom door. _

_ Kady is eating cereal at the table, still in her sleep tank and shorts, scrolling through her phone. She nods at Eliot as he pours a cup of coffee.  _

_ “Morning,” he says, taking a seat in the chair next to hers. _

_ She grunts his way, taking another large gulp of her coffee. “We have a job later,” she tells him, pushing a few curls out of her eyes. _

_ Eliot looks at her with interest. Doing odd jobs and training new magicians wasn’t exactly where he thought he’d wind up post Brakebills—his plans had been less specific, involving lazing around a New York penthouse (which, ok, goal achieved) with Margo, or traveling around Europe. With Margo. Whom he hadn’t seen in three months. _

_ Thinking of her, of not hearing her voice or smelling her coconut oil or that dry shampoo she insists is the best but it’s fucking  _ not  _ for so long, twists his gut. He misses her.  _

_ When he’d decided to come back to Earth with Julia, he’d stopped to see her before he left, pulled her out of a council meeting. The sadness and understanding, and fucking hope in her eyes had nearly broken him, but she’d reached up, palming his cheek.  _

_ “Go fix your shit,” she’d said. “There’s always a place for you here.” _

_ They sent letters back and forth, sporadically, neither of them being much for writing. Occasionally a wild bunny would drop out of thin air, once right in the middle of Julia’s lunch, muttering “MISS YOU, COCKSUCKER.” Julia had wrinkled her nose, sighing as the rabbit started munching on her salad. _

_ He needs to visit. _

_ When he’s ready. _

_ Kady finishes the last of her cereal and sits back in her chair. “At McNulty’s,” she says, naming one of the more popular hedge bars in the city. The one he and Quentin had wound up at for their first date, actually. “Someone fucked up their wards. They want us to fix them, add a few more. Shroud some rooms in the back, crap like that.” _

_ Eliot nods, humming in acknowledgement. This will be his third time working on containment wards, and he’s familiar with the spells and materials. He shouldn’t need to brush up before that afternoon. _

_ Kady’s proposition to help train some of the newer hedges has evolved over the past several weeks—he does still work with new recruits a few times a week, but he also helps out on random odd jobs around the city. The magicians community in NYC is one of the largest in the world, and there’s always some merchant that needs professionally constructed wards, artifacts, or protection spells. And while Eliot may not be a master magician, or even an actual professional, he can fake it well enough for them to get paid. _

_ It passes the time. Which is something Eliot has more than enough of these days. Quentin is in the middle of his semester, and he’s taken on another class when a professor had quit (or up and disappeared, fell into a portal, tripped into the suicide fountain, you never know with Brakebills), leading to Eliot spending way too much time watching late night TV. _

_ His life is different than he’d ever expected. But those expectations have shifted so drastically in the past five (or fifty, depending on what lifetime you were looking at) years, that at this point, he’s content to just ride whatever wave comes his way. _

_ He does enjoy working with the hedges. Seeing faces light up at completing a complex spell they’d been working on for hours, a genuine smile directed right at him for showing them the way. It reminds him of that other lifetime, the later years, when it was just him, Quentin, and Teddy. Teaching Teddy how to fish, make his own clothes, plant a flower, skin a squirrel (while Quentin watched with his fingers over his eyes). And when he was older, how to use the magic inside him. Before the mosaic, Eliot thought the only thing he’d ever nurture were his addictions to liquor and professional hair care products, but now he finds himself craving that uplifting feeling of helping someone find something inside of themselves they weren’t even aware existed. _

_ But every time he feels that odd sensation of pride swell in his chest, or a wave of love when Quentin smiles at him, something else rushes in, a cold drip drip drip that overshadows the warmth spreading through his limbs. A little voice whispering ‘Enjoy this while you have it because you’re gonna fuck it up. You’re gonna lose it all.’ _

_ It all comes back to what he’d told Quentin that day in his room—lightning doesn't strike twice. Not for someone like him. There’s no way he can live as he did, for so long, hurting so many people, and live to be this happy. It’s all going to come crashing down. Someday. Maybe soon. _

_ “Meet you here at three?” Kady finishes her coffee, standing up and bringing her mug to the sink.  _

_ “Yep,” Eliot says, trying to shake off the cold tingle still running down his spine. He’s fine. Everything is  _ fine _. Kady nods at him and pads back to her bedroom. _

_ Eliot finishes his coffee, spending a few minutes longer than necessary cleaning out his mug while his mind wanders. To the night before, Quentin’s hands in his hair, pulling Eliot’s body against him in the dark. To the early morning sunlight streaming through the large windows. To the day ahead, which now includes work. _

_ He heads back to his own bedroom; he’ll cook breakfast when Quentin is up. Which he is now, although he’s still in bed, laying on his back, scrolling through his phone. He smiles lazily, setting his phone aside as Eliot shuts the door behind him, dropping his robe on the floor before crawling back into bed next to Quentin. _

_ Eliot drops a kiss on his lips and pulls away, opening his mouth to speak, when Quentin quickly pulls him in for another kiss. _

_ “Mmph, you taste like coffee,” Quentin says, slipping his tongue in Eliot’s mouth. Eliot breaks away, laughing. _

_ “You have morning breath,” Eliot says, smiling down at Quentin. “Kady has a job she needs me on later this afternoon.” _

_ “Okay,” Quentin says. “I have some papers to go over before Monday, anyway. We can meet when you’re done?” Eliot nods, their feet bumping under the covers. Quentin’s eyes slide down to Eliot’s chest, one hand scritching through the thin hair there. “We have some time now, though?” _

_ Eliot beams at Quentin, running a hand through his hair. “We do. If you brush your teeth.” _

_ \-- _

_ “Nice job,” Kady says, looking around the office in satisfaction. It had taken three hours, but they’d repaired the wards that someone had busted through the night before, and set up a few new ones at the owners request. “I’ll go get paid; you mind cleaning up?” There were various vials, herbs, materials spread across the office. _

_ Eliot nods, and Kady disappears through the door. Just as he’s vanishing away the crushed sage, the owner of the bar, Patrick, comes through the door. He’s an overweight older man, well-known in the magician circles for his jovial demeanor that could turn ice-cold in a second. Eliot had no doubt the silencing charm he’d placed around the back office was for more than just privacy. _

_ Eliot gives him a friendly smile. “Almost done here,” he says. “Then we’ll be out of your hair.” _

_ “You two are welcome here anytime,” Patrick says, his Irish accent still thick, even after decades of being in the city. “You’re saving my ass. Even if you are getting paid well for it.” Patrick crosses behind his desk, rummaging in the cabinet against the back wall. _

_ Eliot nods again, putting the last of the vials in his bag. He looks up to see Patrick pouring two shots of vodka onto his desk. He frowns; that weird, cold tingle on the back of his neck returns. He closes the bag. _

_ “Here,” Patrick says, holding one out to Eliot. “From my personal stash, not the crap I sell to whoever walks in the door. For a job well done.” _

_ Eliot stares at it. His fingers twitch, he can already feel it burning down his throat. He’s not supposed to—he shouldn’t. But things have been fine. So good. And he was thinking, he doesn’t really think he has to  _ never  _ drink again. He probably could. He can indulge, just in moderation. And he—he can’t really turn it down. Not from a regular client, in his bar. It’s just one shot. He’ll be fine. _

_ He looks up at Patrick and gives a small smile, reaching out and taking the glass, trying to keep his fingers still. They clink in a small toast, and then Patrick takes his shot. Eliot stares at his, the glass cool against his fingers. And then he drinks it in one go. _

_ It burns, even more than he remembers. That familiar taste on his tongue, that smooth spice that tingles, warms him from his head to his toes. For a second his mind dulls, the noise inside a muted static, and then it bounces back to full stereo. Patrick wasn’t lying, this is top shelf. Eliot coughs as the heat flows to his belly, and Patrick laughs. _

_ “Good shit, yeah?” He puts the bottle away, and Eliot nods, flexing the hand that held the shot glass. He looks at his hands, at the floor. He feels fine. He’s fine. Nothing exploded. He’s still him. Same guy he was thirty seconds ago. It was one shot, he probably won’t even get tipsy. And he won’t do it again. _

_ “Thanks,” he says, nodding once more at Patrick. Then he turns, grabs his supply bag, and nearly runs out the door. _

_ \-- _

_ An hour later he’s at Quentin’s door, knocking on the door frame of his room at Brakebills, take-out bags in his hands. Quentin smiles up at him, tossing his pen to his desk. They have dinner and fall asleep tangled together in Quentin’s bed. _

_ He’s fine. He doesn’t even feel any kind of buzz or anything. He’s not thinking about that familiar taste on his tongue or the weightless quiet  _ _ that always came when he had a few. _

_ And it’s  _ not  _ gonna happen again. So no need to tell anyone about it. _

_ \-- _

_ It does happen again. A week later. He’d just finished up a session on basic refraction spells, and a few of the hedges invite him out for a drink. He’s just being polite. The ‘cool teacher,’ like he told Quentin. He has a beer. He doesn’t even really like beer.  _

_ It feels good, though. Takes the edge off the fact that he really has no idea what he’s doing these days. _

_ \-- _

_ A few days later, after Quentin texts him to let him know he can’t see him tonight because some third-year managed to disappear half of the Phosphoromancy Lab and he has to fucking find it, Eliot can’t get the movements right on the Czechoslovakian Unlocking Charm, which is ridiculous; it’s a simple fucking spell that he should be able to do with both hands tied behind his back. _

_ It takes twenty minutes, but he gets it right, and the hedges he’s working with stop looking at each other awkwardly. He stops by a restaurant on the way home, one of those chains with a bar up front, that is way too bright and has twenty TV’s in one room. _

_ He doesn’t trust any of the mixed drinks here, and they don’t sell hard liquor. He has two beers. They taste horrible. But he feels better after. _

_ For a little while. _

_ \-- _

_ He offers to take on a hedge class on Tuesday nights when the regular instructor can’t do that time anymore. When Kady objects because of his group meetings, he tells her he’ll go to the Thursday night meetings. _

_ He doesn’t. _

_ \-- _

_ “Eliot. Wake the fuck up.” _

_ He jerks his head up from where it had been pillowed on his elbows. His mouth feels dry, like it’s full of cotton, and his head—it’s pounding. Fuck. And he’s sitting still, but also feels like he’s on a boat. Because everything is moving. Tilting. _

_ Drunk. He’s drunk. Floor is tilting, lights are pretty, stupid urge to giggle, drunk. And yet somehow, also hungover. Splitting headache, high possibility of vomit, pretty lights are also painful to his eyes, hungover. _

_ Fuck. _

_ He looks up into the absolutely furious brown eyes of Julia Wicker. He fully sits up, banging his head on the low light fixture, which does not help the whole ‘head pounding’ issue. “Shit,” he hisses, palms to his forehead. _

_ A glass of water is shoved in front of him. “Drink this,” Julia orders, glancing behind her.  _

_ He picks it up, taking a sip, looking up at her, around her.  _

_ The night comes back to him. Quentin had cancelled again for work, or something. Classes at the safe house. Let’s go get a drink. Alright. He had suggested McNulty’s. The same bar he and Quentin had gone to on their first date, with the magical foosball and the darts that never miss the target even when you’re so drunk you throw it at the ceiling. He missed Quentin. How can you miss someone you’d just seen that morning? _

_ He had whiskey. Bourbon. They just kept buying him drinks. Didn’t they know? He wasn’t supposed to? _

_ But he’d never told them, he realizes. How would they know if he didn’t tell them? _

_ Some things you just can’t speak about. _

_ He drains the glass of water, and tries to remember the tut to get rid of a hangover. He hasn’t done it in so long. He picks up his hands, they start to twist, and Julie grabs them, shoving them down to the tabletop. _

_ “No,” she says. “You earned that fucking headache.” _

_ Eliot’s eyes lower to the table top. He forgot how mean she can be when she was mad. Not like he doesn’t deserve it. “Sorry,” he whispers. _

_ Julia’s face falters, and she lets go of his hands. “I’m so… dammit, Eliot.” She huffs in frustration, literally spinning in a circle as she steps away from, and then back towards him. “You’re lucky no one was hurt. What happened?” Julia drops into the booth across from him. She glances back across the room, and Eliot follows her eyes to see Kady talking to someone behind the bar. Curls bouncing, hands gesturing. Patrick. The owner. Eliot looks behind her to see the pool table, cracked in half. Shit. _

_ A vague memory. A dare. “Bet you can’t lift the pool table.” From that show-off hedge. Richard. Dick.  _

_ Hedges cheering him on. His phone vibrating in his pocket. He turns to grab it from his pocket, forgetting that he was concentrating on lifting nearly 1,000 pounds into the air. A large crash. Screams. A large Irish man yelling in his face. _

_ No one was hurt, but the place had cleared out pretty quick after that. A strong hand on his arm, shoving him into this booth. Where he’d apparently decided his best course of action was to lay his head down on his arms and fall asleep.  _

_ What the fuck had he been thinking? He could have hurt someone. He could have  _ killed  _ someone. _

_ That cold drip drip drip invaded his body. Icy static crawling from the top of his head, down the back of his neck, tingling down his shoulders, invading his chest and heart, solidifying into a hard ball in his belly, dribbling all the way down to his toes. He knew what it was now. Regret. He’d faced so many of his regrets in his own mind. And now he had to go and fucking make new ones. _

_ “Eliot,” Julia says, her voice teeming with frustration. “Did you hear me? What were you thinking?” _

_ “Nothing,” he tells Julia, meaning it. Nothing happened. No bad day. No arguments. Nothing that triggered his slow-motion tumble off the wagon. There was nothing, no one to blame. No one but himself. _

_ Quentin is going to be so disappointed. Eliot can see it now. That sad, helpless look in his eyes. _

_ Or maybe he’ll be angry. Like that day in his room. So full of rage. Maybe he’ll toss Eliot out on his ass. _

_ He deserves it.  _

_ Plus everyone knew it was coming anyway. For Eliot to fuck it all up. _

_ Like he always does. _

_ Tears spring to his eyes. Fuck. He squeezes them shut, presses the heel of his hand into his eyes.  _

_ Kady walks over, sliding her phone into her back pocket. “Q’s on his way,” she says to Julia. “He’ll fix the pool table. And all the furniture.” _

_ Eliot slumps back into the corner of the both, against the wall, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to suck up the ridiculous amount of emotion crawling up his throat.  _ Fuck fuck fuck.

_ “Give us a minute.” He looks up to see Julia sliding out of the booth, exchanging a look with Kady as she walks across the now-deserted bar. Kady sits where Julia just was, laying her arms on the table as she looks at Eliot. Her eyes are tired, weary. They aren’t sparking with anger, blazing like he’d expected. Which just makes Eliot sink even lower in his seat. _

_ Eliot looks over at the broken pool table, and then down at his hands. “Just get it over with.” _

_ He feels Kady’s green eyes examining him. “Get what over with?” _

_ “The lecture. The yelling. Firing me. I don’t know.” _

_ Kady smirks, one hand reaching up to toy with the little half heart that often hangs around her neck. “You think you’re the first person to backslide?” She chuckles. “I took out an entire wall once.” _

_ She leans back in the booth. “Eliot, you’ve been through so much shit. I can’t begin to understand what the inside of your head is like. But I can understand the person I’ve been living with for the past five months. Who works with new, fucking annoying hedges with a patience I cannot even begin to understand. Someone who wants to be better. Someone who is better than he was when Quentin first brought you over, all… sad with greasy hair.” _

_ Eliot frowns at her. “That was  _ product _.” _

_ Kady shrugs her shoulders. “I know this isn’t the first time,” she says, “that you’ve had a drink since you came back. I can’t make you get help, but… you should think about going back to the meetings. Or find something that works for you. You don’t have to do it alone, dude. Quentin will understand. He’ll be there for you. We all will be. Just ask for help. One day at a time. Okay?” _

_ Eliot swallows hard, and though he's looking at Kady, he’s really seeing Quentin, a few years younger, scared out of his mind as Eliot tells him, “I'm trying to tell you, you are not alone here.” The memory sends a stab of pain through his chest. He really should listen to his own advice. _

_ He nods. “I’m sorry, Kady. How pissed is Patrick?” _

_ She laughs. “He’s not. No one was hurt, and he was about to close up anyway, so I think he’s more amused than anything. I’m glad he called me instead of dealing with you himself. He’s a businessman and now he’ll get some free services from us to make it right, so…” She sighs. “You’re with a buddy now. No jobs or leading classes alone. Either with me or another senior. For a while.” _

_ Eliot nods, and Kady looks at him for another moment. Then she slides out of the booth and walks over to Julia. Eliot’s head is still swimming, though the floor has stopped moving and his head isn’t pounding as loudly. He moves his fingers in a tut, and the headache disappears, though he knows it’ll probably be back again in the morning. _

_ He pulls his phone out of his back pocket—several missed calls and even more text messages. He opens the thread from Quentin, scrolling through. Quentin had sent a few random texts apologizing for working late, a few about whatever was on his mind and what he was working on, and then, the most recent, asking if Eliot is okay. To please respond. And then, ‘OMW.’ _

_ Eliot shuts off his phone, shoving it back in his pocket. He can already see the look on Quentin’s face, the sadness, pity, fucking disappointment—he can’t. He just can’t. He leans his head back against the booth and exhales. Then he hears the door open. _

_ “Where is he?” Quentin’s voice is urgent as he rushes over to Julia, completely ignoring the mess on the floor. _

_ Eliot pushes himself up and out of the booth, and before he can take two steps he has an armful of Quentin, both arms wrapped around his neck. His smell, soap and linen, hits Eliot in the face, and he inhales deep. _

_ “Hey,” Quentin says as Eliot wraps his arms around Quentin. _

_ “Hey,” Eliot says back, unable to keep the tremor out of his voice. _

_ Quentin pulls back, his hands settling on Eliot’s biceps. “Are you okay?” _

_ “Yes, yeah,” Eliot says. “Just embarrassed.” His eyes flicker to the huge mess just feet away. “Quentin, I’m so sorry.” _

_ “As long as you’re okay, that’s all I care about,” Quentin says. Then he turns around, evaluating. “I thought you liked to play pool.” _

_ Eliot chuckles. “I was showing off.” _

_ Quentin turns to him, a small smile on his face that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You? Never.” He grabs Eliot’s hands in his and squeezes. “This won’t take long and then we’ll go home, okay?” _

_ Eliot nods as Quentin goes over to the pool table, and starts working his magic, Julia stepping in to help to mend the broken furniture. Eliot thumps back in the booth and watches his friends clean up his mess. _

_ \-- _

_ They go home, where Eliot goes straight to the shower. When he comes out, Quentin is talking to Julia and Kady in the kitchen. Conversation stops as soon as Eliot is within line of sight. _

_ Eliot goes to the bedroom, and Quentin follows. He shuts the door as Eliot pulls on an old pair of pajama pants. The shower made him feel more human; nothing is moving or spinning, and he feels more or less sober. But his heart is thudding painfully in his chest as he sits on the bed, looking at the paintings on the wall, the dresser with his jewelry box sitting atop it, the night sky outside the window. Anywhere but at Quentin, who reaches over and takes his hand. _

_ “You wanna talk about it?” Quentin asks, and Eliot can hear the fear in his voice. _

_ Eliot squeezes his hand, and then puts his arm around Quentin, pulling him into his side, Quentin wrapping his arms around Eliot’s torso. “Did you—did you have a bad day?” _

_ “No, Q, my day was fine.” Quentin pulls back and Eliot can see tears in his eyes. _

_ “I know I—I work a lot. And I have to cancel sometimes, I’m sorry. I can do better, I don’t want—” _

_ “Quentin,” Eliot says, “You didn’t do anything wrong. This isn’t… this is about me.” He swallows. “I—I’ve been doing it for a while. Drinking. It, uh, just started with one. A few months ago. And I was fine. And then I had another one.” He looks away, blinking against the tears in his eyes. _

_ “I just, uh,” Eliot says, laughing, chuckling, for some fucking reason, “I have what I wanted. I have you. And it’s—I’m so fucking sure I’m going to fuck it up. That I did. I did fuck it up.” _

_ “Eliot,” Quentin says, his voice cracking, “You haven’t fucked anything up. You made a mistake. I’ve made like, a shitload.” _

_ “I told you,” Eliot whispers, “when I’m scared, I run away. And I think this was me doing that. Running away.” _

_ Eliot wipes his face, and Quentin asks quietly, “What are you scared of?” _

_ “The day you’ll wake up and realize I’m dragging you down. Since I came back, you’ve had your classes and Kady has her covens and Julia has… whatever Julia has, and I’m just… here. Taking up space.” _

_ “Eliot,” Quentin sighs. “First off, I love you taking up my space. Just, for the record. Yes, you take up a lot of it, you’re a giant, but I love it.” He pulls back, wiping tears off his face as he sits up straighter and faces Eliot. His eyes are red and bloodshot, but they are also shining full bore at Eliot, brimming with love and light and a hopefulness that Eliot knows he doesn’t deserve. _

_ Quentin takes a deep breath, clasping both of Eliot’s hands in his own. “Look, I get it. I know that useless feeling better than anyone. You find escape in a bottle. I found it in my books. And later, magic.” He swallows, his eyes darting between Eliot and the window. “And now, sometimes, in you. But you also ground me, Eliot.” Now he stares at Eliot, right into his eyes, and Eliot’s chest is tight and his eyes are burning. “You make me feel—make me want to move forward and not… retreat. Like I used to.” _

_ Tears spill out of Eliot’s eyes, burn a path down his face. Quentin reaches up, brushing them away, ignoring his own streaming down his face. _

_ “I want to help you,” Quentin continues, his voice shaking. “Be that for you. Or help you find whatever it is that is that for you. I want you to let me.” He coughs, sniffles, looking down and then back up to Eliot. His voice firmer, “But I can only do that if you talk to me. Before you drink. I think you should go back to Dr. Reeves and to group, but I’m not going to, like, make you. I know that doesn’t work for everyone.” _

_ He reaches up, cupping Eliot’s face. “Eliot, I love you. Nothing will ever change that. But I need you to promise me. That you’ll try. You said to me, when you first came to my room, that this was you trying. And I’m asking you to keep trying. Not just for me. For you.” _

_ Eliot leans into his touch as Quentin whispers, “Can you do that?” _

_ Eliot nods, the naked love in Quentin’s eyes taking his breath away. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I can try.” _

\--

Now

Eliot

A month has passed since that night. He’s seen Dr. Reeves several times since then, and he hasn’t had a drink since. It’s hard, when that cold sensation passes over him, that ball forms in his gut, that little voice whispers that he can’t do it.

But he is doing it. Every day.

Quentin reaches up to cradle his face, just like he did a month ago. “Eliot,” he says in that same soft, firm voice. “We’re not here because you disappointed me. We’re here to… get some space. To fuck in the  _ lagoon _ . Have a goddamned vacation. God knows we’ve earned one.”

Eliot laughs, the panic beginning to drain away.. He knows that Quentin is right; the past six months have proven that they can go the distance, and he needs to trust in that. But  _ knowing  _ it and  _ believing  _ it are two different things.

“We  _ would _ pick the place where we died for a vacation,” Eliot says wryly.

“I love you,” Quentin says, brushing a stray curl off Eliot’s forehead. “This isn’t lightning, El. I don’t—I don’t know if I believe in fate or whatever, but I think we were meant to be here. Together. In Fillory, on Earth. It’s not something that just happened to us. We made it happen. We’re making it work. Because it’s worth it. You’re worth it. I’m not going anywhere. This is me trying to show you that.”

He leans in and kisses Eliot, slow and sweet.

Eliot pulls away first. “I love you,” he says. “And I’d love to get a place. With you. For just us.”

Quentin breaks into a large smile, and Eliot pushes up, capturing Quentin’s lips with his own. He pulls away after a moment, the corners of his mouth pulling up as his fingers tangle with Quentin’s. “I’m sorry for being such a needy bitch.”

Quentin breaks into laughter. “I’m not. It’s nice that I’m not the needy bitch for once.”

Eliot smiles, pulling Quentin closer and ducking his head for a kiss. It’s chaste, simple, Eliot’s hand resting lightly on the back of Quentin’s neck as he tilts his head to better fit their lips together. Then Quentin’s tongue slips into his mouth and then he’s on his back with Quentin half on top of him, the mosaic tiles hard beneath the blankets they’ve laid down. 

Eliot runs his hand around Quentin’s waist, pushing under his shirt so he can touch the smooth skin of his back. A pleased noise escapes Quentin’s lips, and he pulls back a few inches. The air is quiet, only the soft sounds of the nearby flames moving in a soft breeze above them.

“I’m just sorry we missed all that time when you were in Fillory. I wish I’d just hopped a portal instead of sending you that first letter,” Quentin says, picking up Eliot’s hand, slotting their fingers together. Something pings in Eliot’s head, and he thinks of that letter he wrote, that sat in his jewelry box for the past several months.

Until, in a last minute decision several days ago, he took it out and stuffed it in his pack.

He stares at Quentin, whose brown eyes are soft as he smiles down at Eliot. Eliot runs a finger down the side of his face, thinking of all Quentin has done for him. How he’s supported him in Fillory. Held fast to pull a monster out of him when others gave up. Waited a fucking year for Eliot to get his shit together enough to just have a goddamn face-to-face conversation. Pulling Eliot out of a pool of his own self-hatred so deep that he couldn’t see the light of the surface anymore.

Quentin would do anything for him. He deserves so much more than Eliot can give.

But Eliot will happily spend his life trying. To give Quentin the happiness he deserves.

When Quentin leans in for another kiss, Eliot pulls slightly away. Quentin arches a questioning eyebrow.

“So, uh,” Eliot says, clearing his throat. “You didn’t write the first letter.”

Quentin jerks back in surprise. “Uh, yes I did.” His expression is incredulous, as if he’s insulted Eliot would even consider that he may know better. “Trust me, if you had reached out first, I’d remember. I would have—fucking—I don’t even know.”

“No,” Eliot says, sitting up, Quentin moving back to give him space. “Back, in the hospital, before I, uh, fled like a coward. Right after you woke up. I wrote you a letter.”

Quentin’s eyes get almost comically wide. “You did?”

“Yes,” Eliot says, scratching the back of his head. “I wasn’t—it was never meant to be sent. It’s very… dramatic. But I guess that's just who I am now.”

“ _ Now _ ?” Quentin says.

“Fuck off.” Eliot laughs, rolling his eyes and flopping back on the blanket. Quentin is still sitting right where he was, still staring at Eliot.

“I have it. The letter. I kept it. Brought it here, with us.” Eliot looks up at the night sky, still as beautiful as it was decades ago. Two moons hanging heavy among thousands of stars, tiny pinpricks of light blinking back at him. “If you want it.”

“Are you  _ high _ ?” Quentin asks. Eliot smiles, opens his mouth to retort about how inappropriate Quentin is to ask that, but Quentin is still going. “ _ Of course _ I fucking want it. Where is it?”

Eliot turns his head awkwardly, and their empty packs are still sitting on the ground outside the cottage. He moves his hands in a tut, and the letter comes flying out of a side pocket and into his hands.

A white envelope, blank on the outside. It’s well-worn, folds and wrinkles from the past year creased deep into the paper. He sits up and hands it to Quentin.

Quentin takes it from him slowly, almost reverently. He stares at it, turning it over in his hands. Eliot half expects him to bring it up to his nose and inhale. After a while, Quentin opens the flap, pulling out the papers inside.

The pages are wrinkled, and Eliot knows they feel like thin leather on Quentin’s fingertips. He’d looked at the letter a few times over the past few weeks. Never for very long, just to remind himself of what was at stake. Of what he was fighting so hard for.

His future.

Quentin glances at Eliot, disbelief coloring his face, and then back down to the pages in his hand. “Are you sure I can read this?” he asks Eliot.

Eliot looks at the letter, his heart beating steadily in his chest, his mind calm. He inhales the warm Fillorian air, and smiles. “I’m sure.”

He lays back, his hands behind his head, and stares up at the sky as he hears the papers crinkle in Quentin’s hands. He’s not sure how long he lays there, long enough to see at least three shooting stars, when a warm palm presses against the side of his face. He turns to see Quentin hovering above him, tears streaming down his face.

“This,” he whispers, the papers still clutched in his hands. “You wrote this? For me?”

Eliot reaches up, wipes Quentin cheeks, pushing his hair behind his ears. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Did you like it?”

“Did I—” Quentin looks up to the heavens, as if he can’t believe he’s in the presence of such stupidity. “ _ Yes _ , I fucking liked it. I loved it. Why the fuck have you been holding on to this for so long? If you’d given this to me in the hospital, I—” He breaks off, deciding that kissing Eliot is more important than finishing his sentence.

“You what?” Eliot asks, breaking off the kiss, a smile blossoming on his face.

“I—” Quentin looks off into the distance, searching, and then snaps back to Eliot, smiling, “—have no fucking idea, but you wouldn’t have gone to Fillory, I promise. Not without me, anyway.”

Eliot raises his eyebrows as Quentin gently puts the papers back in their envelope, and then places it in his pocket. “Do I not get my letter back?”

“No,” Quentin says, crawling on top of Eliot, straddling his thighs, leaning over him. “It’s  _ my  _ letter. I’ll die before I give it up.”

Eliot smiles, pulling Quentin down to him. He kisses him hard, hands sliding into Quentin’s hair, holding him in place. Then he trails his lips over to Quentin’s ear, his hands moving down Quentin’s back to pull him down so his torso is flush with Eliot’s. He can feel Quentin’s cock half-hard against his stomach.

“Quentin,” he whispers in his ear, “I think I will literally die if you don’t fuck me tonight.”

Quentin inhales sharply, pulling back to look Eliot in the eye. “Well,” he says, one hand coming up to start unbuttoning Eliot’s shirt, “I would never say no to my former king.”

Eliot’s cock was already starting to pay attention when Quentin straddled him, and he’s stiff by the time Quentin’s fingers have deftly opened every button and are now combing through the dark hairs on Eliot’s chest. Eliot pushes himself up on his elbows, and Quentin shoves Eliot’s shirt down his shoulders, leaning down to lick and suck at his neck.

Eliot tries to sit up more, but his shirt is down around his elbows, trapping them, and Quentin is pinning his lower half to the mosaic while basically mauling his neck and collarbone and Eliot thinks that it’s fitting his gravestone is not far away because he could die again right now, a happy man. He manages to free his arms, laughing as Quentin pulls his own shirt over his head, his hair wild as he tosses it into the darkness.

“What are you laughing at?” Quentin asks, sliding back slightly, the bulge in his jeans grinding right over Eliot’s hard cock.

Eliot’s eyes flutter shut and he falls back onto the blanket, one hand gripping Quentin’s thigh tightly. “I have no idea,” he says.

Quentin falls forward, his elbows on each side of Eliot’s face and kisses him, his tongue licking in Eliot’s mouth as he continues grinding his erection against Eliot’s. They’re chest to chest, Quentin’s warm skin sliding over Eliot’s, his wiry chest hair rubbing over Eliot’s nipples. Eliot runs his hands down Quentin’s back, slipping inside his jeans and underwear to palm his bare ass. Quentin moans into Eliot’s mouth, and Eliot pulls Quentin down hard against him, thrusting up slightly in the same motion.

Eliot loves Quentin’s compact little body, that his ass can fit snugly in Eliot’s palm, and from the sounds coming out of his mouth, Quentin likes it too. Quentin mouths down Eliot’s jaw as Eliot nudges one of Quentin’s legs out of the way, wrapping his own long leg around Quentin’s calf. He massages his fingers into Quentin’s ass, pressing his head back into the blanket covering the hard mosaic tile as Quentin turns his attention to Eliot’s neck.

Eliot forces his eyes open, staring up into the blanket of stars in the night sky. As Quentin moves down his body, trailing his lips over Eliot’s neck, collarbone, down to his chest and nipples, Eliot thinks of that first night, somewhere between three and fifty years ago, these same stars shining down on them, when Quentin turned to him, said, “Hey,” and leaned forward and changed Eliot’s life.

It had started long before that first night, of course. Eliot had been gone as soon as a floppy-haired boy from Jersey had stumbled on the green lawn of Brakebills and gaped at him in shock. Eliot curls his hands now in that soft hair, Quentin’s hands working at the clasp on Eliot’s pants. 

Fate. Lightning. Circumstances. Magic. 

Whatever it was, he was thankful as fuck that it had led him here.

Quentin’s hot breath blows against his belly, and Eliot picks his hips up so Quentin can slide off his pants. His cock is heavy between his legs, and he watches as Quentin stares at it, licking his lips.

“You gonna stare at it all night, Coldwater? We’re not getting any younger, you know.” Eliot pushes himself up on his elbows again, smirking at Quentin.

Quentin’s eyes flicker up to him, and the smile drops off Eliot’s face at the heat he sees reflected there. “I’m gonna suck your cock and eat you out until you’re begging for it,” Quentin says, his voice low.

_ Shit _ , Eliot thinks.  _ I should’ve given him that letter ages ago. _

Quentin shoves a pillow under Eliot’s hips, and tosses one at him for his head. Quentin’s hands move in a familiar tut, and Eliot feels the magic move through him, protecting and cleaning him out. It’s not a full prep spell; a thrill goes through Eliot as he realizes Quentin is going to take the long way around. 

He can’t fucking wait.

And he doesn’t have to, as Quentin reaches up, pressing one hand gently against Eliot’s chest, pushing him back against the blankets. They’d laid out a couple to make a comfortable palette over the mosaic, but Eliot can still feel the outline of the tiles against his back.

Eliot stares at the heavens when Quentin’s mouth descends on his hard cock, licking a stripe from base to tip and back again. Eliot doesn’t stifle his gasp, one hand moving to Quentin’s head, threading through his hair while the other grasps the blanket beneath him.

Quentin’s slick hand wraps around the base of Eliot’s cock; he must have lubed up his hand with magic, and he starts a gentle rhythm, stroking Eliot’s cock while he wraps his tongue around the head.

He takes his time, tasting every inch of Eliot’s dick, like he’s savoring it, caressing Eliot’s balls, occasionally teasing down his perineum and Eliot’s tight entrance. Eliot remembers Quentin’s promise to make him beg, and Eliot thinks it’s not going to be a long walk to that point, as his thighs are already trembling under Quentin’s palms.

Finally, when his cock is brushing against the back of Quentin’s throat, after Eliot’s has spent what feels like hours fucking babbling about how good Quentin is at sucking cock, like Jesus christ he needs a trophy with a golden tongue on top of it, Quentin’s hand finally, firmly circles around Eliot’s hole, one finger sliding all the way in.

Eliot cries out, one hand tightening in Quentin’s hair, pulling a little too firmly, but he feels Quentin’s grin around his cock. A second finger slips in, and Quentin starts to move his hand, thrusting in and out at a maddeningly slow pace.

“Fuck, Q,” Eliot gasps out, pushing his hips back on Quentin’s hand. Quentin reaches his other hand up and presses firmly down on Eliot’s chest.

“Keep still,” Quentin says, and Eliot’s eyes fly open at the commanding tone in Quentin’s voice, his cock somehow getting harder.  _ What the fuck _ , where has this been hiding all these months? “Stay still now, and you can ride me after. Deal?”

“Fucking—yes—deal—Quentin, what the fuck, you’re so goddamn—fucking—fuck,” Eliot says, words just flying out of his mouth like Quentin has imparted his ability to not speak over to Eliot via his cock sucking. He lifts his head to meet Quentin’s eyes, and Quentin’s lips are puffy and red from his work on Eliot’s cock, his eyes practically black, and Eliot can barely see, but it looks like he’s unzipped his jeans and his own cock is half hanging out. While he stares, Quentin crooks his two fingers still buried inside Eliot, and stars explode through Eliot’s groin, his head falling back as he focuses on staying still and not blowing his load way too early.

He nearly cries when Quentin withdraws his fingers, but his soft whine is cut off when he feels Quentin’s tongue licking around his tight hole, and then pressing inside him, warm and wet. Quentin pushes Eliot’s legs apart, far enough that Eliot feels the burn of the stretch. Every stroke of his tongue is electric, sending shards of heat and tension radiating throughout Eliot’s entire body. 

The urge to push forward, pull Quentin even tighter against him is almost overpowering, but Eliot keeps his body still, pressing his head back into the pillow, clenching his hands into fists. His cock is painfully hard, and he resists the urge to reach out and stroke it; it would probably only take a few strokes before he came, and he wants this to last.

It feels like seconds and ages before Quentin pulls his face away, replacing his tongue with his fingers, thrusting and scissoring inside Eliot as he moves up Eliot’s body, Eliot hissing as Quentin’s chest and stomach sliding over his sensitive cock.

“You ready?” Quentin asks, running his lips over Eliot’s collarbone.

“P-Please,” Eliot says, not proud of the tremor in his voice. He can feel Quentin’s grin against his skin, and Eliot would roll his eyes but he’s too tense, keyed up, so fucking ready to go that all he can do is grab Quentin’s face and pull it to his.

Quentin grunts, pulling his fingers up and out of Eliot, who fucking  _ whimpers  _ at the loss. But then Quentin’s tongue is thrusting inside his mouth, Eliot’s hands clutching at his back, his hair, while Quentin works to shove his pants down and off his legs, his lips never leaving Eliot’s.

They shuffle, turn over, switch positions, and then Eliot is hovering over Quentin, his hand reaching down to Quentin’s cock, smoothing the bead of pre-come that had formed at the tip all over it. Quentin inhales sharply, his eyes closing, and Eliot smiles—he loves this. Having Quentin in his hand, watching his face, knowing that he affects him this way. He could get off just from that blissful look on his face.

Eliot sits back over Quentin’s thighs, and then he tuts, pulling moisture from the air to form a small pool in his hand. He smooths it over Quentin’s cock, rubbing it liberally all over, and down to his balls, just for good measure. He keeps his eyes on Quentin’s face, enjoying how his eyes squeeze shut, how he bites his lower lip, the flush creeping across his entire body.

Eliot lurches forward, supporting himself with a hand braced on the blanket next to Quentin, and kisses him, softly. “Are  _ you  _ ready?” he asks teasingly, reaching back and running the head of Quentin’s cock around his slick, throbbing entrance, pushing up between his cheeks. His own dick is hard between them, aching with a need Eliot knows will be satisfied as soon as he has Quentin inside him.

Quentin’s eyes have lost that confident gleam, replaced with the tenderness and uncertainty Eliot is far more familiar with. “Yeah,” he says, as if in a daze, floating.

Eliot kisses him once more, Quentin’s hands coming up to hold Eliot’s face against his, his fingers burying in Eliot’s curls. As Eliot pulls away and pushes up on his knees, Quentin holds Eliot’s face in place, staring right into his eyes. 

“I love you,” he whispers, and Eliot feels that tug on his heart, a wave crash over his head, a sharp sting in his throat.

“I love you,” Eliot whispers back, and then he lines up and slowly starts to sink down.

That firm pressure, the satisfying pop when Quentin’s head slips in—there’s nothing like it. Eliot’s tries to keep his eyes on Quentin’s face, to watch as he inches down, taking Quentin inside him, but his eyes flutter shut as the feeling of fullness, the tightness and heat moving inside him are overwhelming.

Sweat beads on his forehead, the back of his neck as he pumps up and down, just the head of Quentin’s cock moving inside him, and Quentin groans and gasps, one hand reaching out to grip Eliot’s thigh, the other clumsily stroking Eliot’s cock. Eliot gasps as Quentin’s hot fingers wrap around him, stroking him with shaking fingers.

“Fucking—ride me, already,” Quentin says, pushing up with his hips, trying to force himself in further.

Eliot smiles, one hand firm on Quentin’s chest. “So needy,” he says, and then he sinks down until Quentin is fully sheathed inside him. Eliot’s breath catches in his throat as he looks at Quentin splayed out beneath him, feels him as close as he could possibly be, in the same spot where it started all those years ago. 

“Fuck,” Quentin gasps out as Eliot starts to move, pumping up with his lower body, thighs burning, head thrown back as he works Quentin’s cock. They don’t do this often enough, he thinks, Quentin fucking him, filling him, making Eliot his own.

Minutes pass, Eliot maintaining a slow steady rhythm, lazily stroking his cock as Quentin moves inside him. Quentin grasps at any skin he can touch, Eliot’s thighs, tugging at his free hand, gasping and writhing between Eliot’s legs.

His thighs start to burn, and Eliot falls forward, bracing himself on one hand next to Quentin’s head, shifting his hips slightly forward. Quentin plants his feet flat on the ground and pushes his hips up, pulling Eliot’s face down to his, their kisses sloppy, almost frantic. 

Eliot’s cock is trapped between them, every movement dragging Quentin’s dick at just the right angle over his prostate to build up the pressure inside him. He feels that familiar tingle in his belly, the weight of his balls drawing up, his cock leaking all over them. “You want me to—” Eliot rasps out, breaking off as Quentin’s hands claw down his back, the burn of his nails scratching Eliot’s skin mixing with the pleasure shooting through every limb.

“Yeah,” Quentin grunts out, snaking one hand between them to wrap around Eliot’s cock. It only takes two, three strokes and Eliot’s orgasm overtakes him, spilling white heat between them, his muscles clamping down on Quentin’s dick.

Quentin cries out, following Eliot over the edge, still pumping into him until he’s spent. His legs collapse against the blanket-covered tiles, and Eliot sags on top of him, letting his full weight press over Quentin.

They lay there for a few moments, spent and filthy until Eliot rolls over on his side, wincing as he pulls off of Quentin’s cock. Quentin wraps an arm around his shoulders, turning his head to kiss Eliot’s forehead.

Eliot’s gaze turns up to the sky; the stars look brighter, more vibrant. “We should come back,” he tells Quentin, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Quentin is quiet, and then he turns his face back to Eliot’s, brushing his lips at his hairline. “Yeah,” he agrees, just as quiet. “We should.”

\--

“That should do it.” Eliot takes a step back and looks over the clearing, nodding.

Quentin reaches up, the ward flashing as he passes his hand through it. “You’re getting a lot better with your wards,” Quentin notes, reaching for his full pack.

“Learned a lot from Kady and the seniors,” Eliot says. “But this should keep the cottage and mosaic protected from weather and decay, no matter if we decide to come back in a year or ten.” They’d moved the daybed over next to the cottage to make sure it would be within the wards’ boundaries.

“You ready?” Quentin asks, hitching the straps over his shoulders.

Eliot nods at Quentin, picking up his own pack and hitching it over his shoulders. “Ugh,” he groans. “Next time can we take a horse and carriage?”

“Sure,” Quentin says, smiling. “This trip didn’t turn you into a fan of backpacking?”

“Um, no. I’m sure I would love backpacking if it included not walking and not carrying a backpack, though.”

They walk to the edge of the clearing, and turn, staring back at the cottage. One last look.

“I’m glad we came here,” Quentin says, his eyes moving over the area. Remembering. He turns to find Eliot staring at him.

“Me too,” he says, reaching out. Quentin takes his offered hand, and then they step into the woods.

Their feet firm on a dirt path home.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sad shit warning - there are flashbacks detailing Eliot’s death in 3.5 in the mosaic timeline, and Quentin’s thoughts while burying him.
> 
> Thank you again to Hoko, for blowing me away with her mosaic art featured in the middle of this piece. So amazing.
> 
> I purposefully did not detail out what was written in the letter to Quentin, as it has basically all been said in Chapters 1 & 2 from Eliot to Quentin, and I feel the exact contents are not needed (I do enjoy leaving stuff like that up to the reader and also this thing is already almost 30k with three sex scenes come on do you really need more). But if you really really really really really wanna see the letter, you can see it [here](https://i.imgur.com/qj59kte.jpg).

**Author's Note:**

> Please find me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/rubickk7) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Rubick71).


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